MOUNTAIN 
BLOOD 


BY 
JOSEPH  HERGESHEIMER 


NEW  YORK 

ALFRED '  A  -  KNOPF 

1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1915,  1919,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KtfOPF,  INC.     A. 


fo 


FEINTED   IN   THE    UNITED    STATES   Or   AMERICA 


To 
MT  MOTHER 


THE  fiery  disk  of  the  sun  was  just  lifting  above 
the  shoulder  of  hills  that  held  the  city  of 
Stenton  when  the  Greenstream  stage  rolled 
briskly  from  its  depot,  a  dingy  frame  tavern,  and 
commenced  the  long  journey  to  its  high  destination. 
The  tavern  was  on  the  outskirts  of  town ;  beyond,  a 
broad,  level  plain  reached  to  a  shimmering  blue  sil 
houette  of  mountains  printed  on  a  silvery  sky;  and 
the  stage  immediately  left  the  paved  street  for  the 
soft,  dusty  country  road.  Stenton  was  not  yet  astir; 
except  for  an  occasional  maid  sleepily  removing  the 
milk  from  gleaming  marble  steps,  or  early  workmen 
with  swollen,  sullen  countenances,  the  streets  were 
deserted.  The  dewy  freshness  of  morning  was  al 
ready  lost  in  the  rapidly  mounting  heat  of  the  June 
day.  Above  the  blackened  willows  that  half  hid 
the  waterworks  an  oily  column  of  smoke  wavered 
upward  in  slow,  thick  coils,  mingling  with  the  acid 
odor  of  ammonia  from  a  neighboring  ice  manufac 
turing  plant;  a  locomotive  whistled  harsh  and  per 
sistent;  the  heat  vibrated  in  visible  fans  above  the 
pavement. 

[9] 


.  ..MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 
From  the  vantage  point  of  the  back  porches  of 
Stenton  the  sluggish  maids  could  see  the  Greenstream 
stage  fast  diminishing.  The  dust  rose  and  en 
veloped  it,  until  it  appeared  to  be  a  ball,  gilded  by 
the  sun,  rolling  over  the  rank  grey-green  plain. 
Finally  it  disappeared  from  the  vision  of  the  awak 
ening  city. 


[10] 


II 

IT  was  a  mountain  surrey,  with  a  top  and  rolled 
curtains,  three  rigid  seats,  and  drawn  by  ugly, 
powerful  horses  in  highly  simplified  harness. 
At  the  rear  a  number  of  mailbags,  already  coated 
with  a  dun  film,  were  securely  strapped. 

The  driver  lounged  forward,  skilfully  picking 
flies  with  his  whip  from  the  horses'  backs.  He  had 
a  smooth  countenance,  deeply  tanned,  and  pale,  clear 
blue  eyes.  At  his  side  sat  a  priest  in  black,  a  man 
past  middle  age,  with  ashen,  embittered  lips,  and  a 
narrowed,  chilling  gaze.  They  were  silent,  con 
templative;  but,  from  the  seat  behind  them,  flowed 
a  constant,  buoyant,  youthful  chatter.  A  girl  with 
a  shining  mass  of  chestnut  hair  gathered  loosely  on 
a  virgin  neck  was  recounting  the  thrilling  incidents 
of  "commencement  week"  for  the  benefit  of  a  heav 
ily-built  young  man  with  a  handsome,  masklike 
countenance.  On  the  last  seat  a  carelessly-garbed 
male  was  drawing  huge  clouds  of  smoke  from  a  for 
midable  cigar. 

Gordon  Makimmon,  the  driver,  did  not  know  the 
latter.  He  had  engaged  and  paid  for  his  seat  the 


MOUNTAIN  BLOOD 
night  before,  evading  such  indirect  query  as  Makim- 
mon  had  addressed  to  him.  It  was  a  fundamental 
principle  of  Greenstream  conduct  that  the  direct 
question  was  inadmissible ;  at  the  same  time,  the  in 
habitants  of  that  far,  isolated  valley  were,  on  all 
occasions,  coldly  curious  about  such  strangers,  their 
motives  and  complexions  of  mind,  as  reached  their 
self-sufficient  territory.  This  combined  restriction 
and  necessity  produced  a  wily  type  of  local  inquisi 
tor.  But  here  Gordon's  diplomacy  had  been  in 
vain,  his  surmising  at  sea.  The  others  were  inti 
mate  and  familiar  figures : 

Father  Merlier's  advent  into  Greenstream  had  oc 
curred  a  number  of  years  before.  He  had  arrived 
with  papers  of  introduction  to  one  of  the  few  papist 
families  in  that  rigorously  protestant  neighborhood ; 
and,  immediately,  had  erected  outside  the  village  of 
Greenstream  a  small  mission  school  and  dwelling, 
where  he  addressed  himself  to  the  herculean  task 
of  gaining  converts  to  his  faith.  At  first  he  had 
been  regarded  with  unconcealed  distrust — boys, 
when  the  priest's  back  was  turned,  had  thrown 
stones  at  him;  the  turbulent  element,  on  more  than 
one  occasion,  had  discussed  the  advisability  of  "run 
ning"  him  from  the  community.  But  it  was  true 
of  both  boys  and  men  that,  when  they  had  confronted 
the  beady,  black  glitter  of  Merlier's  unfaltering 
gaze,  encountered  the  patent  contempt  of  his  rigid 

[12] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

lips,  they  had  subsided  into  an  unintelligible  mut 
ter,  and  had  been  glad  to  escape. 

He  became  an  habitual  sight,  riding  a  blooded 
mare  through  the  valley,  over  lonely  trails,  and  was 
finally  accepted  as  a  recognized  local  institution. 
His  title  and  exotic  garb,  the  grim  quality  of  his 
manhood,  his  austere  disregard  for  bodily  welfare, 
his  unmistakable  courage — more  than  any  other 
human  quality  extolled  throughout  Greenstream — 
became  a  cause  of  prideful  boasting  in  the  County. 

Gordon  Makimmon  had  known  Lettice  Hollidew, 
now  speaking  in  little,  girlish  rushes  behind  him, 
since  her  first  appearance  in  a  baby  carriage,  nine 
teen  or  twenty  .years  back.  He  had  watched  her 
without  particular  interest,  the  daughter  of  the  rich 
est  man  in  Greenstream,  grow  out  of  sturdy,  bare 
legged  childhood  into  the  girl  he  had  now  for  five 
years  been  driving,  in  early  summer  and  fall,  to  and 
from  the  boarding  school  at  Stenton. 

She  was,  he  had  noted,  reserved.  Other  school 
girls,  in  their  passages  from  their  scattered  upland 
homes,  were  eager  to  share  Gordon's  seat  by  the 
whip ;  and,  with  affected  giggling,  or  ringing  bursts 
of  merriment,  essayed  to  drive  the  wise,  heedless 
mountain  horses.  But  Lettice  Hollidew  had  always 
shrunk  from  the  prominent  place  on  the  stage;  there 
was  neither  banter  nor  invitation  in  her  tones  as  she 
greeted  him  at  the  outset  of  their  repeated  trips, 

[13] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

or  as  she  gravely  thanked  him  at  the  end  of  the  day's 
journey. 

Her  father — he  was  reputed  to  possess  almost 
half  a  million  dollars — was  a  silent  man,  suspicious 
and  wary  in  his  contact  and  dealings  with  the  world; 
and  it  was  probable  that  those  qualities  had  been 
softened  in  Pompey  Hollidew's  daughter  to  a 
habit  of  diffidence,  to  a  customary,  instinctive  re 
pression. 

No  such  characteristics  laid  their  restraint  on 
Buckley  Simmons,  her  present  companion.  His  im 
mobile  face,  with  its  heavy,  good  features  and  slow- 
kindling  comprehension,  was  at  all  times  expressive 
of  loud  self-assertion,  insatiable  curiosity,  facile  con 
fidence;  from  his  clean  shaven  lips  fell  always  sat 
isfied  comment,  pronouncement,  impatient  opinion. 
If  Hollidew  was  the  richest  man  in  Greenstream 
Valentine  Simmons  was  a  close  second.  Indeed,  one 
might  be  found  as  wealthy  as  the  other;  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  the  Simmons  holdings  in  real  estate,  scat 
tered  broadcast  over  the  county,  would  realize  more 
than  Hollidew  could  readily  command — thus  Val 
entine  Simmons'  son,  Buckley. 

He  was  elaborately  garbed  in  grey  serge,  relent 
lessly  shaped  to  conform  to  an  exaggerated,  passing 
fashion,  a  flaring  china  silk  tie  with  a  broadly  dis 
played  handkerchief  to  match,  yellow-red  shoes  with 
wide  ribbands,  and  a  stiff,  claret-colored  felt  hat. 

[14] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

Gordon  Makimmon,  with  secret  dissatisfaction, 
compared  himself  with  this  sartorial  model.  Gor 
don's  attire,  purely  serviceable,  had  apparently 
taken  on  a  protective  coloring  from  the  action  of 
time  and  the  elements;  his  shirt  had  faded  from  a 
bright  buff  to  a  nondescript  shade  which  blended 
with  what  had  once  been  light  corduroy  trousers; 
his  heavy  shoes,  treated  only  the  evening  before  to 
a  coat  of  preservative  grease,  were  now  covered  with 
muck ;  and,  pulled  over  his  eyes,  a  shapeless  canvas 
hat  completed  the  list  of  the  visible  items  of  his 
appearance. 

He  swore  moodily  to  himself  as  he  considered  the 
picture  he  must  present  to  the  dapper  youth  and  im 
maculate  girl  behind  him.  He  should  have  remem 
bered  that  Lettice  Hollidew  would  be  returning 
from  school  to-day,  and  at  least  provided  an  emer 
gency  collar.  His  sister  Clare  was  always  scolding 
him  about  his  clothes  .  .  .  but  Clare's  was  very  gen 
tle  scolding. 

A  species  of  uncomfortable  defiance,  a  studied 
contempt  for  appearance,  possessed  him :  he  was  as 
good  any  day  as  Buckley  Simmons,  the  clothes  on 
whose  back  had  probably  been  stripped  from  the 
desperate  need  of  some  lean  mountain  inhabitant 
trading  at  the  parental  Simmons'  counter.  The 
carefully  cherished  sense  of  injury  grew  within  him ; 
he  suspected  innuendoes,  allusions  to  his  garb,  in  the 

[IS] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

half-heard  conversation  behind  him;  he  spoke  to 
his  horses  in  hard,  sharp  tones,  and,  without  reason, 
swept  the  whip  across  their  ears. 


[16] 


Ill 

MEANWHILE,  they  drew  steadily  over  the 
plain;  the  mountains  before  them  gradu 
ally  lost  their  aspect  of  mere  silhouette; 
depths  were  discernible ;  the  blue  dissolved  to  green, 
to  towering  slopes  dense  with  foliage.  Directly  be 
fore  them  a  dark  shadow  steadily  grew  darker,  until 
it  was  resolved  into  a  cleft  through  the  range.  They 
drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  pierced  barrier,  the 
road  mounted  perceptibly,  the  trees  thickened  by  the 
wayside.  A  covey  of  dun  partridge  fluttered  out  of 
the  underbrush. 

The  sun  was  high  in  a  burning  grey  vault,  and 
flooded  the  plain  with  colorless,  bright  light.  The 
stage  paused  before  entering  the  opening  in  the 
rocky  wall ;  the  stranger  in  the  rear  seat  turned  for 
a  comprehensive,  last  survey.  Simmering  in  a  cal 
orific  envelope  the  distant  roofs  and  stacks  of  Sten- 
ton  were  visible,  isolated  in  the  white  heat  of  the 
pitiless  day.  Above  the  city  hung  a  smudge,  a 
thumbprint  of  oily  black  smoke,  carrying  the  sug 
gestion  of  an  intolerable  concentration,  a  focal 
point  of  the  fiery  discomfort.  In  the  foreground  a 
buzzard  wheeled,  inevitable,  depressing. 

[17] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

With  a  sharp  flourish  of  his  whip  Gordon  urged 
the  stage  into  the  cold  humidity  of  the  gorge.  Sten- 
ton  and  the  plain  were  lost  as  it  passed  between 
close,  dripping  rocks,  rank  verdure,  masses  of  gi 
gantic,  paleolithic  fern. 


[18] 


T 


IV 


[HE  dank,  green  smell  hung  in  their  nostrils 
after  they  had  left  the  ravine  for  a  fertile 
tableland.  They  trotted  through  a  village 
strung  along  the  road,  a  village  of  deeply-scrolled 
eaves  under  the  thick  foliage  of  maples,  of  an  in 
credible  number  of  churches — "Reformed,"  "Estab 
lished,"  qualified  Methodist,  uncompromising  Bap 
tist.  They  were  all  built  of  wood,  and  in  varying 
states  of  repair  that  bore  mute  witness  to  the  persua 
sive  eloquence  of  their  several  pastors. 

Beyond,  the  way  rose  once  more,  sunny  and  dusty 
and  monotonous.  The  priest  was  absorbed,  mut 
tering  unintelligibly  over  a  small,  flexible  volume. 
The  conversation  between  Lettice  Hollidew  and 
Buckley  fell  into  increasing  periods  of  silence.  The 
stranger  lit  a  fresh  cigar,  the  smoke  from  which 
hung  out  back  in  such  clouds  that  the  power  of  the 
stage  might  well  have  been  mistaken  for  steam. 

The  road  grew  steeper  still,  and,  fastening  the 
reins  about  the  whipstock,  Gordon  swung  out  over 
the  wheel  and  walked.  He  was  a  spare  man, 
sinewy  and  upright,  and  past  the  golden  age  of 

[19] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

youth.  He  lounged  over  the  road  in  a  careless  man 
ner  that  concealed  his  agile  strength,  his  tireless 
endurance.  This  indolent  carriage  and  his  seem 
ingly  slight  build  had,  on  more  than  one  occasion, 
been  disastrously  misleading  to  importunate  or  beery 
strangers.  He  could,  and  did,  fight  whenever 
chance  offered,  with  a  cold  passion,  a  destructive 
abandon,  that  had  won  him,  throughout  the  turbu 
lent  confines  of  Greenstream,  a  flattering  measure  of 
peace. 

In  this  manner  his  father,  just  such  another,  had 
fought  before  him,  and  his  grandfather  before  that. 
Nothing  further  back  was  known  in  Greenstream. 
It  was  well  known  that  the  first  George  Gordon  Mac- 
Kimmon — the  Mac  had  been  speedily  debauched  by 
the  slurring,  local  speech — had  made  his  way  to 
Virginia  from  Scotland,  upon  the  final  collapse  of 
a  Lost  Cause.  The  instinct  of  the  highlander  had 
led  him  deep  into  the  rugged  ranges,  where  he  had 
lived  to  see  the  town  and  county  of  Greenstream 
crystallize  about  his  log  walls  and  stony  patch. 

There,  finally  breaking  down  the  resistance  of  a 
heroic  constitution,  he  had  succeeded  in  drinking 
himself  to  death.  His  son  had  grown  up  imbued 
with  local  tradition  and  ideas,  and  was  settling  seri 
ously  to  a  repetition  of  the  elder's  fate,  when  the 
Civil  War  offered  him  a  wide,  recognized  field  for 
the  family  belligerent  spirit.  He  was  improving 

[20] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

this  chance  to  the  utmost  with  Morley's  Raiders 
when  a  slug  ended  his  activities  in  the  second  year 
of  the  war. 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  Makimmons  that  they 
should  each  have  left  their  family  in  precarious  cir 
cumstances.  They  were  not,  they  would  contemptu 
ously  assert,  farmers  or  merchants.  When  the  tim 
ber  was  cut  from  the  valley,  the  underbrush  burned, 
and  the  superb  cloth  of  grass  started  that  had 
formed  the  foundation  of  a  number  of  comfortable 
fortunes,  the  Makimmons,  scornful  of  the  effort,  had 
remained  outside  the  profit. 

Such  income  as  they  enjoyed  had  been  obtained 
from  renting  their  acres  to  transient  and  indifferent 
farmers.  In  the  crises  of  life  and  death,  or  under 
the  desire  for  immediate  and  more  liquor,  they  sold 
necessary  slices.  This  continued  until  nothing  re 
mained  for  the  present  Gordon  Makimmon  but  the 
original  dwelling — now  grotesquely  misshapen  from 
the  addition  of  casual  sheds  and  extensions — and  a 
small  number  of  acres  oi\  the  outskirts  of  town. 

There  he  lived  with  Clare,  his  sister.  Their 
mother,  the  widow  of  that  Makimmon  whose  dis 
putatious  temper  had  been  dignified  by  the  epitaph 
of  "heroic  sacrifice,"  had  died  of  a  complicity  of 
patent  medicines  the  winter  before.  An  older 
brother  had  totally  disappeared  from  the  cognizance 
of  Greenstream  during  Gordon's  boyhood;  and  a 

[21] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

married  sister,  completing  the  tale,  lived  at  the  op 
posite  end  of  the  county,  held  close  by  poverty  and 
her  own  large  brood. 

Summer  and  winter  Gordon  Makimmon  drove 
the  stage  between  Greenstream  and  Stenton.  At 
dawn  he  left  Greenstream,  arriving  in  Stenton  at 
the  end  of  day;  the  following  morning  he  re-departed 
for  Greenstream.  This  mechanical,  monotonous 
routine  satisfied  his  need  without  placing  too  great 
a  strain  on  his  energy;  he  enjoyed  rolling  over  the 
summer  roads  or  in  the  crisp  clear  sunlight  of  win 
ter;  he  liked  the  casual  converse  of  the  chance  pas 
sengers,  the  inevitable  deference  to  his  local  knowl 
edge,  the  birdlike  chatter  and  flattery  of  the  young 
women.  He  liked,  so  easily,  to  play  oracle  and 
wiseman;  he  liked  the  admiration  called  forth  by  a 
certain  theatrical  prowess  with  the  reins  and  whip. 

On  the  occasions  when  he  was  too  drunk  to  drive 
— not  over  often — a  substitute  was  quietly  found 
until  he  recovered  and  little  was  said.  Gordon 
Makimmon  was  invaluable  in  a  public  charge,  a 
trust — he  had  never  lost  a  penny  of  the  funds  he 
continually  carried  for  deposit  in  the  Stenton  banks ; 
_n.o  insult  had  been  successfully  offered  to  any  daugh 
ter  of  Greenstream  accompanying  him  without  other 
care  in  the  stage. 


[221 


THEY  rose  steadily,  crossing  the  roof  of  a 
ridge,  and  descended  abruptly  beyond. 
Green  prospects  opened  before  them — a 
broad  valley  was  disclosed,  with  a  broad,  shallow 
stream  dividing  its  meadows;  scattered  farmhouses, 
orderly,  prosperous,  commanded  their  shorn  acres. 
A  mailbag  was  detached  and  left  at  a  crossroad 
in  charge  of  two  little  girls,  primly  important, 
smothered  in  identical,  starched  pink  sunbonnets. 
The  Greenstream  stage  splashed  through  the  shal 
low,  shining  ford;  the  ascent  on  the  far  side  of  the 
valley  imperceptibly  began. 

The  sun  was  almost  at  the  zenith;  the  shadow  of 
the  stage  fell  short  and  sharp  on  the  dry,  loamy 
road;  a  brown  film  covered  the  horses  and  vehicle; 
it  sifted  through  the  apparel  of  the  passengers  and 
coated  their  lips.  The  rise  to  the  roof  of  the  suc 
ceeding  range  seemed  interminable;  the  road  looped 
fields  blue  with  buckwheat,  groves  of  towering,  ma 
jestic  chestnut,  a  rocky  slope,  where,  by  a  crevice,  a 
swollen  and  sluggish  rattlesnake  dropped  from  sight. 

At  last,  in  the  valley  beyond,  the  half-way  house, 
dinner  and  a  change  of  horses  were  reached.  The 

[23] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

forest  swept  down  in  an  unbroken  tide  to  the  porch 
of  the  isolated  roadside  tavern ;  a  swift  stream  filled 
the  wooden  structure  with  the  ceaseless  murmur  of 
water.  In  the  dusty,  gold  gloom  of  a  spacious 
stable  Gordon  unhitched  his  team.  Outside,  in  a 
wooden  trough,  he  splashed  his  hands  and  face, 
then  entered  the  dining-room. 

A  long  table  was  occupied  by  an  industrious  com 
pany  that  broke  the  absorbed  silence  only  by  explo 
sive  requests  for  particularized  dishes.  Above  the 
table  hovered  the  wife  of  the  proprietor,  constantly 
waving  a  fly  brush — streamers  of  colored  paper 
fastened  to  a  slender  stick — above  the  heads  of  her 
husband  and  guests. 

Gordon  Makimmon  ate  largely  and  rapidly,  ably 
seconded  by  the  strange  passenger  and  Buckley 
Simmons.  The  priest,  Merlier,  ate  sparingly,  in 
an  absent,  perfunctory  manner.  Lettice  Hollidew, 
at  the  opposite  end  of  the  table,  displayed  the  gen 
erous  but  dainty  appetite  of  girlhood.  The  coat 
to  her  suit,  with  a  piece  of  lace  pinned  about  the 
collar,  and  a  new,  flat  leather  bag  with  a  silver 
initial,  hung  from  the  back  of  her  chair. 

They  again  listlessly  took  their  places  in  the  stage. 
Buckley  Simmons  emulated  the  stranger  in  lighting 
a  mahogany-colored  cigar  with  an  ornamental  band 
which  Buckley  moved  toward  his  lips  before  the 
swiftly  approaching  conflagration.  Gordon  dro;e 

[24] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

with  his  mind  pleasantly  vacant,  lulled  by  the  mo 
notonous  miles  of  road  flickering  through  his  vision, 
the  shifting  forms  of  distant  peaks,  virid  vistas, 
nearby  trees  and  bushes,  all  saturated  in  the  slumber 
ous,  yellow,  summer  heat. 

Gradually  the  aspect  of  their  surroundings 
changed,  the  forms  of  the  mountains  grew  bolder, 
streams  raced  whitely  over  broken,  rocky  beds;  the 
ranks  of  the  forest  closed  up,  only  a  rare  trail  broke 
the  road.  The  orderly  farmhouses,  the  tilled  fields, 
disappeared;  a  rare  cabin,  roughly  constructed  of 
unbarked  logs,  dominated  a  parched  patch,  cut  from 
the  heart-breaking  tangle  of  the  wild,  a  thread  of 
smoke  creeping  from  a  precarious  chimney  above 
the  far,  unbroken  canopy  of  living  green.  Children 
with  matted  hair,  beady-eyed  like  animals,  in  bag- 
like  slips,  filled  the  doorways;  adults,  gaunt-jawed 
and  apathetic,  straightened  momentarily  up  from 
their  toil  with  the  stubborn  earth. 

At  the  sharpest  ascent  yet  encountered  Gordon 
again  left  the  stage.  Buckley  Simmons  recalled  a 
short  cut  through  the  wood,  and  noisily  entreated 
Lettice  Hollidew  to  accompany  him. 

"It's  awfully  pretty,"  he  urged,  "and  easy;  no 
rocks  to  cut  your  shoes.  I'll  go  ahead  with  a  stick 
to  look  out  for  snakes." 

She  shuddered  charmingly  at  the  final  item,  and 
vowed  she  would  not  go  a  step.  But  he  persisted, 

[25] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

and  in  the  end  persuaded  her.  The  stranger  con 
tinued  unmoved  in  his  place;  Merlier  shifted  not  a 
pound's  weight,  but  sat  with  a  cold,  indifferent  face 
turned  upon  the  straining  horses. 

Gordon  walked  ahead,  whistling  under  his  breath, 
and,  with  a  single  skilful  twist,  he  rolled  a  cigarette 
from  a  muslin  bag  of  tobacco  labeled  Green  Goose. 

The  short  cut  into  which  Buckley  and  Lettice  Hol- 
lidew  disappeared  refound  the  road,  Gordon  knew, 
over  a  mile  above;  and  he  was  surprised,  shortly,  to 
see  the  girl's  white  waist  moving  rapidly  into  the 
open.  She  was  'alone,  breathing  in  excited  gasps, 
which  she  struggled  to  subdue.  Her  face  that  five 
minutes  before  had  been  so  creamily,  placidly  com 
posed  was  now  hotly  red ;  her  eyes  shone  with  angry, 
unshed  tears. 

Gordon's  lips  formed  a  silent  exclamation  .  .  . 
Buckley  evidently  had  made  an  error  in  judgment. 
Lettice  stepped  out  into  the  road,  and,  plainly  un 
willing  to  encounter  the  questioning  eyes  in  the  stage, 
walked  rigidly  beside  Gordon.  Behind  the  obvious 
confusion,  the  hurt  surprise  of  her  countenance,  an 
unexpected,  dormant  quality  had  been  stirred  into 
being.  The  crimson  flood  in  her  cheeks  had  stained 
more  than  her  clear  skin — it  had  colored  her  gracile 
and  candid  girlhood  so  that  it  would  never  again  be 
pellucid;  into  it  had  been  spilled  some  of  the  in 
delible  dye  of  woman. 

[26] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

Gtrdon  Makimmon  gazed  with  newly-awakened 
interest  at  Lettice;  for  the  first  time  he  thought  of 
her  is  other  than  a  school-girl;  for  the  first  time  he 
discovered  in  her  the  potent,  magnetic,  disturbing 
quality  of  sex.  Buckley  Simmons  had  clumsily 
forced  it  into  consciousness.  A  fleeting,  unformu- 
lated  regret  enveloped  him  in  the  shadow  of  its 
melancholy,  an  intangible,  formless  sorrow  at  the 
swift  passage  of  youth,  the  inevitable  lapse  of  time. 
A  mounting  anger  at  Buckley  possessed  him  .  .  . 
had  been  in  his,  Gordon  Makimmon's,  care. 
The  anger  touched  his  pride,  his  self-esteem,  and 
grew  cold,  deliberate:  he  watched  with  a  contracted 
jaw  for  Simmons'  appearance. 

"Why,"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  lowered  voice,  "that 
lown  tore  your  pretty  shirtwaist! " 

"He  had  no  reason  at  all,"  she  protested;  "it 
was  just  horrid."  A  little  shiver  ran  over  her. 
"He  ...  he  held  me  and  kissed  .  .  .  hateful." 

"I'll  teach  him  to  keep  his  kissing  where  it's 
liked,"  Gordon  proclaimed.  His  instinctively 
theatrical  manner  diminished  not  a  jot  the  menace 
of  the  threat. 

"Oh!  please,  please  don't  fight."  She  turned  a 
deeply  concerned  countenance  upon  him.  "That 
would  hurt  me  very  much  more — " 

"It  won't  be  a  fight,"  he  reassured  her,  "only  a 
little  hint,  something  for  Buck  to  think  about.  No 

[27] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

one    will    know."     He    could    not    resist    adding, 
"Most  people  go  a  good  length  before  fighting  with 


me." 


"I  have  heard  that  you  are  awfully — "  she  hesi 
tated,  then,  "brave." 

"It  was  'ugly'  you  heard,"  he  quickly  supplied 
the  pause.  "But  that's  not  true;  I  don't  fight  like 
some  men,  just  for  a  good  time.  Why,  in  the  towns 
over  the  West  Virginia  line  they  fight  all  night; 
they'll  fight — kill  each  other — for  two  bits,  or  A 
drink  of  liquor.  .  .  .  There's  Buckley  now,  coming  \ 
in  above." 

Buckley  Simmons  entered  the  road  from  a  narrow 
trail  a  number  of  yards  ahead  of  the  stage.  He 
tramped  heavily,  holding  a  hickory  switch  in  one 
hand,  cutting  savagely  at  the  underbrush.  The 
stage  leisurely  caught  up  to  him  until  the  horses' 
heads  were  opposite  his  thickset  form.  Gordon, 
from  the  other  side  of  the  team,  swung  himself  into 
his  seat.  He  grasped  the  whip,  and,  leaning  out, 
swept  the  heavy  leather  thong  in  a  vicious  circle. 
It  whistled  above  the  horses,  causing  them  to  plunge, 
and  the  lash,  stopped  suddenly,  drew  across  Buckley 
Simmons'  face.  For  an  instant  his  startled  coun 
tenance  was  white,  and  then  it  was  wet,  gleaming 
and  scarlet.  He  pressed  his  hands  to  his  mouth,  and 
stumbled  confused  into  the  ditch. 

Gordon  stopped  the  stage.     Merlier  gave  vent  to 
[28] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

a  sibilant  exclamation,  and  Lettice  Hollidew  cov 
ered  her  eyes.  The  stranger  sprang  to  the  road, 
and  hurried  to  the  injured  man's  side.  Gordon  got 
down  slowly.  " Where  did  it  get  him?"  he  inquired, 
with  a  shallow  show  of  concern.  He  regarded  with 
indifferent  eyes  the  gaping  cut  across  Simmons'  jaw, 
while  the  stranger  was  converting  a  large  linen 
handkerchief  into  a  ready  bandage. 

Buckley,  in  stammering,  shocked  rage,  began  to 
curse  Gordon's  clumsiness,  and,  in  his  excitement, 
the  wound  bled  more  redly.  "You  will  have  to 
keep  quiet,"  he  was  told,  "for  this  afternoon  any 
how." 

"I'm  not  a  'dam'  blind  bat,"  Gordon  informed 
his  victim  in  a  rapid  undertone;  "my  eyes  are 
sharper  than  usual  to-day."  Above  the  stained 
bandage  Simmons'  gaze  was  blankly  enraged. 
"That  won't  danger  you  none,"  Gordon  continued, 
in  louder,  apparently  unstudied  tones;  "but  you 
can't  kiss  the  girls  for  a  couple  of  weeks." 

Buckley  Simmons  was  assisted  into  the  rear  seat; 
Lettice  sat  alone,  her  face  hidden  by  the  flowery 
rim  of  her  hat;  Merlier  was  silent,  indifferent,  bland. 
The  way  grew  increasingly  wilder,  and  climbed  and 
climbed ;  at  their  back  dipped  and  spread  mile  upon 
mile  of  unbroken  hemlock;  the  minute  clearings,  the 
solitary  cabins,  were  lost  in  the  still  expanse  of  tree 
tops;  the  mountain  towered  blue,  abrupt,  before 

[29] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

them.  The  stranger  consulted  a  small  map. 
"This  is  Buck  Mountain,"  he  announced  rather  than 
queried;  "Greenstream  Village  is  beyond,  west 
from  here,  with  the  valley  running  north  and  south." 

"You  have  got  us  laid  out  right,"  Gordon  as 
sented;  "this  all's  not  new  to  you."  It  was  as  close 
to  the  direct  question  as  Gordon  Makimmon  could 
bring  himself.  And,  in  the  sequel,  it  proved  the 
wisdom  of  his  creed;  for,  obviously,  the  other 
avoided  the  implied  query.  "The  Government 
prints  a  good  map,"  he  remarked,  and  turned  his 
shoulder  squarely  upon  any  prolongation  of  the  con 
versation. 

They  were  now  at  the  summit  of  Buck  Mountain, 
but  dense  juniper  thickets  hid  from  them  any  ex 
tended  view.  After  a  turn,  over  the  washed,  rocky 
road,  the  Greenstream  Valley  lay  outspread  below. 

The  sun  was  lowering,  and  the  shadow  of  the 
western  range  swept  down  the  great,  somber,  wooded 
wall  towering  against  an  illimitable  vault  of  rosy 
light;  the  lengthening  shadows  of  the  groves  of  trees 
on  the  lower  slope  fell  into  the  dark,  cool,  emerald 
cleft.  It  was  scarcely  three  fields  across  the  shorn, 
cultivated  space  to  the  opposite,  precipitous  barrier; 
between,  the  valley  ran  narrow  and  rich  into  a  faint, 
broken  haze  of  peaks  thinly  blue  on  either  hand. 
And,  held  in  the  still  green  heart  of  that  withdrawn, 

[30] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

hidden  space,  the  village  lay  along  its  white  high 
way. 

The  stage  dropped  with  short,  sharp  rushes  down 
the  winding  road;  the  houses  lost  the  toy-like  as 
pect  of  distance;  cowbells  clashed  faintly;  a  dog's 
bark  quivered,  suspended  in  hushed  space.  The 
stage  passed  the  first,  scattered  houses,  and  was 
speedily  in  the  village:  each  dwelling  had,  behind  a 
white  picket  fence,  a  strip  of  sod  and  a  tangle  of 
simple,  gay  flowers — scarlet,  white,  purple  and  yel 
low,  now  coated  with  a  fine,  chalky,  summer  dust. 
The  dwellings  were,  for  the  most  part,  frame,  with  a 
rare  structure  of  brick  under  mansard  slates  green 
with  moss.  The  back  yards  were  fenced  from  the 
fields,  on  which  hay  had  been  cut  and  stood  in  high 
ricks,  now  casting  long,  mauve  shadows  over  the 
close,  brilliant  green.  The  stage  passed  the  white 
board  structure  of  the  Methodist  Church,  and 
stopped  before  the  shallow  portico  of  the  post-office. 


[31] 


VI 

A  SMALL,  familiar  group  awaited  the  arrival 
of  the  mail;  and  from  it  several  figures 
detached  themselves.  The  postmaster 
stepped  forward,  and  assisted  Gordon  in  unfasten 
ing  the  mailbags ;  a  clerk  from  Valentine  Simmons' 
store,  in  shirtsleeves  elaborately  restrained  by  pink 
bowed  elastics,  inquired  for  a  package  by  express; 
and  Pompey  Hollidew  pushed  impatiently  forward, 
apparently  anxious  for  a  speedy  view  of  his  daugh 
ter.  This  laudable  assumption  was,  however,  im 
mediately  upset  by  the  absent  nod  he  bestowed  upon 
Lettice,  and  the  evident  interest  and  relief  with 
which  he  turned  to  the  stranger  descending  from  the 
stage. 

"Mr.  Hollidew?"  the  latter  inquired,  with  ill-con 
cealed  surprise. 

Pompey  Hollidew,  the  richest  man  in  Green- 
stream,  wore — as  was  customary  with  him — a 
crumpled  yellow  shirt,  open  at  his  stringy  throat, 
and  innocent  of  tie ;  his  trousers,  one  time  lavender, 
had  faded  to  a  repulsive,  colorless  hue,  and  hung 
frayed  about  cheap,  heavy  shoes  fastened  by  copper 
rivets.  An  ancient  cutaway  of  broadcloth,  spotted 

[32] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

and  greenish,  with  an  incomplete  mustering  of  but 
tons,  drooped  about  his  heavy,  bowed  shoulders; 
while  a  weather-beaten  derby,  seemingly  unbrushed 
for  countless,  grimy  years,  completed  his  forlorn 
adornment. 

His  face  was  long,  with  vertical,  pallid  folds 
gathered  loosely  into  a  chin  frosted  with  unkempt 
silver ;  his  mouth  was  lipless,  close,  shadowed  by  an 
overhanging,  swollen  nose;  and,  from  beneath  deep, 
troubled  brows,  pale  blue  eyes  set  close  together  re 
garded  life  skeptically,  intently,  with  appalling 
avidity,  veiled  yet  discernible. 

He  disappeared,  clutching  the  stranger's  sleeve, 
with  an  effort  at  geniality.  Simmons'  clerk  rue 
fully  tested  the  weight  of  a  small,  heavily  nailed 
box. 

Lettice  Hollidew  slowly  assembled  her  traveling 
effects.  It  was  evident  that  she  wished  to  say  some 
thing  to  Gordon,  for  she  lingered,  patently  playing 
with  her  gloves,  directing  at  him  bright,  nervous 
glances  from  under  the  straw  brim  of  her  hat.  But 
she  was  forced  to  depart  in  silence,  for  Buckley  Sim 
mons,  in  reply  to  the  queries  of  the  cause  of  his  acci 
dent,  launched  upon  a  loud,  angry  explanation  of 
the  obvious  aspect  of  the  incident. 

"The  clumsy  yap ! "  he  pointedly  exclaimed. 

Gordon  entered  the  group  of  which  Buckley  was 
the  hub.  "It  was  too  bad  to  spoil  Buck  for  the 

[33] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

girls,"  he  pronounced  coolly;  "but  he'll  be  after  them 
again  in  a  couple  of  weeks." 

He  gazed  with  level  disdain  into  the  tempest  gath 
ering  in  Simmons'  eyes  above  the  dark,  spotted 
handkerchief.  He  paused,  deliberately  insolent, 
challenging  a  rejoinder,  until,  none  breaking  the 
strained  silence,  he  swung  about,  and,  at  the  horses' 
heads,  led  them  to  their  stabling  at  Peterman's  Hotel. 
He  passed  the  unpainted,  wooden  front  of  the  office 
of  the  Greenstream  Bugle;  the  house  of  Senator 
Themeny  in  its  lindens  on  a  spreading  lawn ;  on  the 
opposite  side  the  mellow  brick  face  of  the  Court 
house  under  towering  poplars,  and  Valentine  Sim 
mons'  store. 

Gordon  stopped  at  the  latter  on  his  way  home. 
It  was  a  long,  shedlike  structure  with  a  false  f agade ; 
before  it,  elevated  a  man's  height  from  the  road, 
was  the  broad  platform  where  the  mountain  wagons 
unloaded  their  merchandise;  on  the  side  facing  the 
Courthouse  ran  a  wooden  hitching  rail.  Inside,  on 
the  left,  Simmons'  private  office  was  shut  in  glass 
from  the  main  floor  of  the  store;  long  counters  led 
back  into  a  semi-obscurity,  where  a  clerk  was  light 
ing  a  row  of  swinging  kerosene  lamps. 

"Chalk  them  up,  Sampson,"  Gordon  carelessly 
told  the  clerk  who  wrapped  up  his  purchases. 
"How  much  are  those?"  he  added,  indicating  a  pair 
of  women's  low  white  shoes. 

[34] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"Four.  They're  real  buck,  and  a  topnotch  arti 
cle.  Nothing  better  comes." 

Gordon  turned  them  over  in  his  hand;  they  would, 
he  thought,  just  fit  Clare;  she  liked  pretty  articles  of 
attire ;  she  had  not  been  so  well  lately.  Clare  was  a 
faithful  sister.  "Just  add  them  to  the  bundle,"  he 
directed  in  a  lordly  manner. 

The  clerk  hesitated,  and  glanced  toward  the  pri 
vate  office,  where  Simmons'  head  could  be  seen 
pinkly  bald.  "Do  you  think  you'd  better,  Gor 
don?"  he  asked;  "the  boss  has  been  crabbed  lately 
about  some  of  the  old  accounts,  and  yours  has  waited 
as  long  as  any.  I  wouldn't  get  nothing  to  catch  his 
eye—" 

"Add  the  shoes  to  my  bundle,"  Gordon  repeated 
with  a  narrowing  gaze;  "I  always  ask  for  the  ad 
vice  I  need." 

Outside  he  endeavored  to  recall  when  he  had  last 
paid  anything  on  his  account  at  Simmons'  store. 
This  was  the  last  week  in  June  .  .  .  had  he  paid 
any  in  April?  in  November?  He  was  not  able  to 
remember  the  occasion  of  his  last  settlement.  He 
must  attend  to  that;  he  had  other  obligations,  too, 
small  but  long  overdue.  He  cursed  the  fluid  quality 
of  his  wage,  forever  flowing  through  his  fingers. 
He  must  apportion  his  expenditures  more  carefully ; 
or,  better  yet,  give  all  his  money  to  Clare ;  the  high- 
power  rifle  he  had  purchased  in  Stenton  the  year 

[35] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

before  had  crippleol  their  resources;  his  last  Christ 
mas  present  to  Clare  had  been  a  heavy  drain;  he  had 
not  yet  recovered  from  the  generous  funeral  he  had 
given  their  mother. 

He  was  unaccustomed  to  such  considerations. 
They  interfered  with  the  large  view  he  held  of  him 
self,  of  his  importance,  his  deserts;  they  limited  his 
necessity  for  a  natural  indifference  to  penny  matters; 
and  he  dismissed  them  with  an  uneasy  movement  of 
his  shoulders. 

He  passed  the  discolored,  plaster  bulk  of  the  Pres 
byterian  Church,  the  drug  store  and  dwelling  of  Dr. 
Pelliter,  and  was  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village. 
The  shadow  of  the  western  range  had  now  slipped 
across  the  valley  and  nearly  climbed  the  opposite 
wall;  lavender  scarfs  of  mist  veiled  the  far,  jum 
bled  peaks  in  the  darkling  rift;  slim,  swaying  col 
umns  of  smoke  from  the  clustered  chimneys  of 
Greenstream  towered  dizzily  through  the  shaded 
air  to  where,  high  above,  they  were  transformed  to 
gold  by  the  last,  up-flung  rays  of  the  sun. 


[36] 


VII 

A  SMOOTH,  conical  hill  rose  sharply  to  the 
left,  momentarily  shutting  out  the  valley; 
and  beyond,  at  the  foot  of  a  steep  declivity, 
stood  the  Makimmon  dwelling.  Originally  a  four 
square,  log  house,  the  logs  had  been  covered  by 
boards,  and  to  its  present,  irregular  length,  one  room 
in  width,  had  been  added  an  uneven  roofed  porch 
broadside  on  a  narrow  lip  of  sod  by  a  wide,  shallow 
stream.  An  indifferent  stand  of  corn  held  precari 
ously  to  the  sharp  slope  from  the  public  road;  an 
unkempt  cow  grazed  the  dank  sod  by  a  primitive 
well  sweep ;  a  heap  of  tin  cans,  bright  or  rusted,  their 
fading  paper  labels  loose  and  littering  the  grass,  had 
been  untidily  accumulated  at  a  back  door. 

Gordon  passed  about  the  end  of  his  dwelling  to 
the  side  that  faced  the  water.  A  wave  of  hot  air,  a 
heavy,  greasy  odor  and  the  sputtering  of  boiling 
fat,  swept  out  from  the  kitchen.  He  filled  a  tin 
basin  on  the  porch  from  a  convenient  bucket  of 
water,  and  made  a  hasty  toilet. 

Clare  paused  at  the  door,  a  long  handled  spoon 
in  her  attenuated  grasp;  she  was  an  emaciated 
woman  of  thirty,  with  prominent  cheek  bones,  a 

[37] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

thin,  sensitive  nose,  and  a  colorless  mouth  set  in  a 
harsh  line  by  excessive  physical  suffering.  There 
was  about  her,  in  spite  of  her  gaunt  features  and 
narrow,  stooping  frame,  something  appealingly  sim 
ple,  girlish.  A  blue  ribband  made  a  gay  note  in  her" 
faded,  scant  hair;  she  had  pinned  a  piece  of  drag 
gled  color  about  her  throat.  "I've  been  looking 
for  you  the  half  hour,"  she  said  querulously;  "draw 
up  t'  the  table." 

"I  stopped  at  Simmons',  and  brought  you  a  pretty, 
too;  it's  in  the  bundle." 

"Gordon!"  she  exclaimed,  as  he  unwrapped  the 
shoes,  "they  are  elegant!  Had  you  ought  to  have 
got  them?  We  need  so  much — mosquito  bar,  the 
flies  are  terrible  wearing,  the  roof's  crying  for  tin, 
and—" 

"You're  as  bad  as  Sampson,"  he  interrupted  her, 
almost  shortly;  "we've  got  to  have  pleasures  as 
well  as  profits.  And  too,"  he  directed,  "don't  put 
those  shoes  away  like  you  did  that  watered  silk 
shawl  I  got  you  in  Stenton.  Wear  them  ...  to 
night." 

"Oh,  no!"  she  cried,  "not  just  setting  around; 
they'll  get  smudged.  Not  to-night,  Gordon;  maybe 
tomorrow,  or  when  I  go  to  church." 

"Tonight,"  he  repeated  inexorably. 

A  bare,  stained  table  with  spreading  legs  pinned 
through  the  oak  board  was  ranged  against  a  bench 

[38] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

on  the  kitchen  wall,  where,  in  the  watery  light  of  a 
small,  glass  lamp,  Gordon  and  Clare  Makimmon  ate 
their  supper  of  flat,  dark,  salt-raised  bread,  strips  of 
bacon  and  dripping  greens,  and  swimming,  purplish 
preserves. 

After  supper  they  sat  on  the  narrow  porch,  facing 
the  dark,  whispering  stream,  the  night  pouring  into 
the  deep,  still  valley.  A  cold  air  rose  from  the  sur 
face  of  the  water,  and  Clare  wrapped  a  worn  piece 
of  blanket  about  her  shoulders.  At  frequent  inter 
vals  she  gazed  with  palpable  delight  at  her  feet, 
shod  in  the  "real  buck."  A  deep,  melancholy 
chorus  of  frogs  rose  from  the  creek,  mingling  with 
the  high,  metallic  shrilling  of  crickets,  the  reiterated 
calling  of  whippoorwills  from  a  thicket  of  pines. 

Gordon  Makimmon  settled  mto  a  waking  som 
nolence,  lulled  by  the  familiar,  profound,  withdrawn 
repose  of  the  valley.  He  could  distinguish  Clare's 
form  weaving  back  and  forth  in  a  low  rocker;  the 
moonless,  summer  night  embraced,  hid,  all;  there 
were  no  lights  in  the  house  at  his  back,  no  lights  visi 
ble  in  the  village  beyond;  only  the  impenetrable 
blackness  of  the  opposite  range  and  the  abrupt  band 
of  stars. 

Suddenly  Clare's  even  breathing,  the  tracking 
sound  of  the  chair,  ceased;  she  drew  two  or  three 
sharp,  gasping  inspirations.  Gordon,  instantly 
alert,  rose  and  stood  over  her.  "Is  it  bad  tonight 

[39] 


MOUNT.AIN    BLOOD 

again?"  he  asked  solicitously;  "shall  I  get  you  the 
ginger  water?" 

"None  ...  in  the  house,"  she  articulated  la 
boriously;  "pretty  .  .  .  bad. 

"No,  don't  leave  me;  just  set;  I'll  be  better  in  a 
spell."  He  fetched  her  a  glass  of  water,  from 
which  she  gulped  spasmodically,  clutching  with 
cold,  wet  fingers  to  his  wrist.  Then  the  tension  re 
laxed,  her  breathing  grew  more  normal.  "It's  by 
now,"  she  proclaimed  unsteadily. 

"I'm  going  back  the  road  for  a  little  ginger,"  he 
told  her  from  the  edge  of  the  porch;  "we'd  best 
have  the  bottle  filled." 

The  drug  store  was  dark,  closed  for  the  night,  and 
Gordon  continued  to  Simmons'  store.  The  row  of 
swinging,  kerosene  lamps  cast  a  thick  yellow  radi 
ance  over  the  long  counters,  the  variously  laden 
shelves.  The  store  was  filled  with  the  odor  of  cof 
fee,  the  penetrating  smell  of  print  muslins. 

"Mr.  Simmons  wants  you  a  minute  in  the  office," 
the  clerk  responded  indirectly  to  his  request  for  gin 
ger.  Gordon  instinctively  masked  a  gathering 
premonition  of  trouble.  "Fill  her  up  the  while,"  he 
demanded,  pushing  forward  the  empty  bottle. 

Valentine  Simmons  was  a  small  man  with  a 
pinkly  bald  head  ornamented  with  fluffs  of  white 
hair  like  cotton  wool  above  his  ears,  and  precise, 
shaven  lips  forever  awry  in  the  pronouncing  of  rally- 

[40] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

ing  or  benevolent  sentences;  these,  with  appropriate 
religious  sentiments,  formed  nine-tenths  of  his  dis 
course,  through  which  the  rare  words  that  revealed 
his  purposes,  his  desires,  flashed  like  slender  and 
ruthless  knives. 

He  was  bending  over  a  tall,  narrow  ledger  when 
Gordon  entered  the  office ;  but  he  immediately  closed 
the  book  and  swung  about  in  his  chair.  The  small 
enclosure  was  hot,  and  filled  with  the  odor  of  scorch 
ing  metal,  the  buzzing  of  a  large,  blundering  fly. 

"Ah!"  Valentine  Simmons  exclaimed  pleasantly; 
"our  link  with  the  outer  world,  our  faithful  messen 
ger.  ...  I  wanted  to  see  you;  ah,  yes."  He 
turned  over  the  pages  of  a  second,  heavier  ledger 
at  his  hand.  "Here  it  is — Gordon  Makimmon, 
good  Scotch  Presbyterian  name.  Five  hundred  and 
thirty  dollars,"  he  said  suddenly,  unexpectedly. 

Gordon  was  unable  to  credit  his  senses,  the  fact 
that  this  was  the  sum  of  his  indebtedness ;  it  was  an 
absurd  mistake,  and  he  said  so. 

"Everything  listed  against  its  date,"  the  other  re 
turned  imperturbably,  "down  to  a  pair  of  white  buck 
shoes  for  a  lady  today — a  generous  present  for  some 
enslaver." 

"My  sister,"  Gordon  muttered  ineptly.  Five 
hundred  and  thirty  dollars,  he  repeated  incredu 
lously  to  himself.  Five  hundred.  .  .  .  "How  long 
has  it  been  standing?"  he  asked. 

[41] 


MOUNTAIN*  BLOOD 

The  other  consulted  the  book.  "Two  years,  a 
month  and  four  days,"  he  returned  exactly. 

"But  no  notice  was  served  on  me;  nothing  was 
said  about  my  bill." 

"Ah,  we  don't  like  to  annoy  old  friends;  just  a 
little  word  at  necessary  intervals." 

Old  rumors,  stories,  came  to  Gordon's  memory 
in  regard  to  the  long  credit  extended  by  Simmons  to 
"old  friends,"  the  absence  of  any  rendered  ac 
counts;  and,  in  that  connection,  the  thought  of  the 
number  of  homesteads  throughout  the  county  that 
had  come,  through  forced  sales,  into  the  store 
keeper's  hands.  The  circumstantial  details  of  these 
events  had  been  bitten  by  impassioned  oaths  into 
his  mind,  together  with  the  memory  of  the  dreary 
ruin  that  had  settled  upon  the  evicted. 

"I  can  give  you  something  day  after  to-morrow, 
when  I  am  paid." 

"Entirely  satisfactory;  three  hundred — no,  for 
you  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  will  be  sufficient; 
the  rest  another  time  .  .  .  whenever  you  are  able." 

"I  get  two  dollars  and  fifty  cents  a  day,"  Gordon 
reminded  him,  with  a  dry  and  bitter  humor,  "and  I 
have  a  month's  pay  coming." 

Valentine  Simmons  had  not,  apparently,  heard 
him.  "Two  hundred  and  fifty  only,"  he  repeated; 
"we  always  like  to  accommodate  old  friends,  espe 
cially  Presbyterian  friends." 

[42] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"I  can  give  you  fifty  dollars,"  Gordon  told  him, 
at  once  loud  and  conciliatory;  wondering,  at  the 
same  time,  how,  if  he  did,  Clare  and  himself  would 
manage.  He  had  to  pay  for  his  board  in  Stenton; 
the  doctor  for  Clare  had  to  be  met — fifty  cents  in 
hand  a  visit,  or  the  visits  ceased. 

"Have  your  little  joke,  then  get  out  that  hidden 
stocking,  pry  up  that  particular  fire  brick  .  .  .  only 
two  hundred  and  fifty  now  .  .  .  but — now." 

A  hopeless  feeling  of  impotence  enveloped  Gor 
don:  the  small,  dry  man  before  him  with  the  pink, 
bald  head  shining  in  the  lamplight,  the  set  grin,  was 
as  remote  from  any  appeal  as  an  insensate  figure 
cast  in  metal,  a  painted  iron  man  in  neat,  grey  al 
paca,  a  stiff,  white  shirt  with  a  small  blue  button  and 
an  exact,  prim  muslin  bow. 

Still,  "I'll  give  you  fifty,  and  thirty  the  next 
month.  Why,  damn  it,  I'll  pay  you  off  in  the  year. 
I'm  not  going  to  run  away.  I  have  steady  work; 
you  know  what  I  am  getting;  you're  safe." 

"But,"  Valentine  Simmons  lifted  a  hand  in  a 
round,  glistening  cuff,  "is  anything  certain  in  this 
human  vale?  Is  anything  secure  that  might  hang 
on  the  swing  of  a  ...  whip?" 

With  an  unaccustomed,  violent  effort  of  will  Gor 
don  Makimmon  suppressed  his  angry  concern  at  the 
other's  covert  allusion:  outside  his  occupation  as 
stage  driver  he  was  totally  without  resources,  with- 

[43] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

out  the  ability  to  pay  for  a  bag  of  Green  Goose 
tobacco.  The  Makimmons  had  never  been  thrifty 
...  in  the  beginning  they  had  let  their  wide  share 
of  valley  holding  grow  deep  in  thicket,  where  they 
might  hunt  the  deer,  their  streams  course  through 
a  woven  wild  where  pheasant  might  feed  and  fall 
to  their  accurate  guns. 

"Two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,"  Valentine  Sim 
mons  repeated  pleasantly. 

"I  haven't  got  it,  and  can't  get  it,  all  at  once," 
Gordon  reiterated  in  a  conciliatory  manner.  Then 
his  straining,  chafing  pride,  his  assaulted  self-es 
teem,  overflowed  a  little  his  caution,  "And  you 
know  it,"  he  declared  in  a  loud,  ugly  voice;  "you 
know  the  size  of  every  pocketbook  in  Greenstream; 
I'll  bet,  by  God,  you  and  old  man  Hollidew  know 
personal  every  copper  Indian  on  the  pennies  of  the 
County." 

Valentine  Simmons  smiled  at  this  conception. 
Gordon  regarded  him  with  hopeless,  growing  anger : 
Why,  the  old  screw  took  that  for  a  compliment! 

"This  is  Wednesday,"  the  storekeeper  pro 
nounced;  "say,  by  Saturday  ...  the  sum  I  men 
tioned." 

"It  can't  be  done."  The  last  vestiges  of  Gor 
don's  control  were  fast  melting  in  the  heat  of  his 
passion.  Simmons  turned  to  the  narrow  ledger, 
picking  up  a  pen.  "When  you  bought,"  he  re- 

[44] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

marked  precisely,  over  his  shoulders,  "the  white 
shoes  and  ammunition  and  silk  fishing  lines — didn't 
you  intend  to  pay  for  them?" 

"Yes,  I  did,  and  will.  And  when  you  said, 
'Gordon,  help  yourself,  load  up,  try  those  flies'; 
and  'Never  mind  the  bill  now,  some  other  time,  old 
friends  pay  when  they  please,'  didn't  you  know  I 
was  getting  in  over  my  head?  didn't  you  encourage 
it  ...  so  you  could  get  judgment  on  me?  sell  me 
out?  Though  what  you  settled  on  me  for,  what  you 
see  in  my  ramshackle  house  and  used  up  ground,  is 


over  me." 


Simmons  flashed  a  momentary,  crafty  glance  at 
the  other.  "Never  overlook  a  location  on  good 
water,"  he  advised. 

Gordon  Makimmon  stood  speechless,  trembling 
with  rage.  For  a  moment  Simmons'  pen,  scratch 
ing  over  the  page,  made  the  only  sound  in  the  small 
enclosure,  then,  "The  provident  man,"  he  contin 
ued,  "is  always  made  a  target  for  the  abuse  of  the 
— the  thoughtless.  But  he  usually  comes  to  the 
assistance  of  his  unfortunate  brother.  You  might 
arrange  a  loan." 

"Why,  so  I  might,"  Gordon  assented  in  a  thick 
voice;  "I  could  get  it  from  your  provident  friend, 
Hollidew — three  hundred  dollars,  say,  at  hell's  per 
cent;  a  little  lien  on  my  property.  'Never  overlook 
a  situation  on  good  water.' 

[451 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"By  God!"  he  exclaimed,  suddenly  prescient, 
"but  I've  done  for  myself." 

And  he  thought  of  Clare,  of  Clare  fighting 
eternally  that  sharp  pain  in  her  side,  her  face  now 
drawn  and  glistening  with  the  sweat  of  suffering, 
now  girlishly  gay.  He  thought  of  her  fragile  hands 
so  impotent  to  cope  with  the  bitter  poverty  of  the 
mountains.  What,  with  their  home,  her  place  of 
retreat  and  security,  gone,  and — it  now  appeared 
more  than  probable — his  occupation  vanished, 
would  she  do? 

"I've  done  for  myself,  for  her,"  he  repeated,  sub 
consciously  aloud,  in  a  harsh  whisper.  He  stood 
rigid,  unseeing;  a  pulse  beat  visibly  in  the  brown 
throat  by  the  collarless  and  faded  shirt.  Simmons 
regarded  him  with  a  covert  gaze,  then,  catching  the 
attention  of  the  clerk  in  the  store  outside,  beckoned 
slightly  with  his  head.  The  clerk  approached,  vig 
orously  brushing  the  counters  with  a  turkey  wing. 

Gordon  Makimmon's  gaze  concentrated  on  the 
storekeeper.  "You're  almost  an  old  man,"  he  said, 
in  a  slow,  unnatural  voice;  "you  have  been  robbing 
men  and  women  of  their  homes  for  a  great  many 
years,  and  you  are  still  alive.  It's  surprising  that 
some  one  has  not  killed  you." 

"I  have  been  shot  at,"  Valentine  Simmons  re 
plied  ;  "behind  my  back.  The  men  who  fail  are  like 
that  as  a  rule." 

[46] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"I'm  not  like  that,"  Gordon  informed  him;  "it's 
;  pretty  well  known  that  I  stand  square  in  front  of  the 
iman  I'm  after.  Don't  you  think,  this  time,  you 
lhave  made  a  little  mistake?  Hadn't  I  better  give 
you  that  fifty,  and  something  more  later?" 

Valentine  Simmons  rose  from  his  chair  and 
iturned,  facing  Gordon.  His  muslin  bow  had 
•slipped  awry  on  the  polished,  immaculate  bosom 
:of  his  shirt,  and  it  gave  him  a  slightly  ridiculous, 
Ibirdlike  expression.  He  gazed  coldly,  with  his  thin 
lips  firm  and  hands  still,  into  the  other's  threatening, 
virulent  countenance.  "Two  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars,"  he  insisted. 

The  thought  of  Clare,  betrayed,  persisted  in  Gor 
don's  mind,  battling  with  his  surging  temper,  his  un 
reasoning  resentment.  Valentine  Simmons  stood 
upright,  still,  against  the  lamplight.  It  was  plain 
that  he  was  not  to  be  intimidated.  An  overwhelm 
ing  wave  of  misery,  a  dim  realization  of  the  disas 
trous  possibilities  of  his  folly,  inundated  Gordon, 
drowning  all  other  considerations.  He  turned,  and 
walked  abruptly  from  the  office  into  the  store. 
There  the  clerk  placed  on  the  counter  the  bottle, 
filled  and  wrapped.  In  a  petty  gust  of  rage,  like  a 
jet  of  steam  escaping  from  a  defective  boiler,  he 
swept  the  bottle  to  the  floor,  where  he  ground  the 
splintering  fragments  of  glass,  the  torn  and  stained 
paper,  into  an  untidy  blot. 

[47] 


VIII 

OUTSIDE,  the  village,  the  Greenstream  Val 
ley,  was  folded  in  still,  velvety  dark.  He 
crossed  the  street,  and  sat  on  one  of  the 
iron  benches  placed  under  the  trees  on  the  Court 
house  lawn.  He  could  see  a  dull,  reddish  light 
shining  through  the  dusty  window  of  the  Bugle  of 
fice.  Shining  like  that,  through  his  egotistical 
pride,  the  facts  of  his  failure  and  impotence  tor 
mented  him.  It  hurt  him  the  more  that  he  had  been, 
simply,  diddled,  no  better  than  a  child  in  Simmons' 
astute,  practised  hands.  The  latter's  rascality  was 
patent,  but  Simmons  could  not  have  been  successful 
unabetted  by  his  own  blind  negligence!  The  catas 
trophe  that  had  overtaken  him  rankled  in  his  most 
vulnerable  spot — his  self-esteem. 

He  suffered  inarticulately,  an  indistinguishable 
shape  in  the  soft,  summer  gloom;  about  his  feet,  in 
the  lush  grass,  the  greenish-gold  sparks  of  the  fire 
flies  quivered;  above  the  deep  rift  of  the  valley  the 
stars  were  like  polished  silver  coins. 

Vaguely,  and  then  more  strongly,  out  of  a  chaos 
of  vain,  sick  regrets,  his  combativeness,  his  deep- 

[481 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

lying,  indomitable  determination,  asserted  itself — 
he  would  not  fall  like  an  over  ripe  apple  into  Sim 
mons'  complacent,  waiting  grasp.  But  to  get,  with 
out  resources,  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  by  Sat 
urday,  was  a  preposterous  task.  Outside  his, 
Clare's,  home,  he  had  nothing  to  sell;  and  to  sell 
that  now,  he  realized  with  a  spoken  oath,  would  be 
to  throw  it  away — the  vultures,  Hollidew  and  Co., 
would  have  heard  of  his  necessity,  and  regulate  their 
action,  the  local  supply  of  available  currency,  ac 
cordingly. 

There  was  no  possible  way  of  earning  such  a  sum 
in  four  days;  there  was  little  more  chance,  he  real 
ized  sardonically,  of  stealing  it.  ...  Sometimes 
large  sums  of  money  were  won  in  a  night's  gambling 
in  the  lumber  and  mining  towns  over  the  West  Vir 
ginia  line.  But,  for  that,  he  would  require  capital; 
he  would  have  his  wages  tomorrow;  however,  if 
he  gambled  with  that  and  lost,  Clare  and  himself 
would  face  immediate,  irredeemable  ruin.  He  dis 
missed  that  consideration  from  the  range  of  possi 
bilities.  But  it  returned,  hovered  on  the  border  of 
his  thoughts — he  might  risk  a  part  of  his  capital, 
say  thirty  dollars.  If  he  lost  that  they  would  be 
little  worse  off  than  they  were  at  present ;  while  if  he 
won  ...  he  might  easily  win. 

He  mentally  arranged  the  details,  assuring  him 
self,  the  while,  that  he  was  only  toying  with  the 

[49] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

idea. — He  would  pay  the  customary  substitute  to 
drive  the  stage  to  Stenton,  and  cross  Cheap  Moun 
tain  on  foot;  by  dark  he  would  be  in  Sprucesap,  play 
that  night,  and  return  the  following  day,  Friday. 

With  an  effort  he  still  put  the  scheme  from  his 
thoughts;  but,  while  he  kept  it  in  abeyance,  nothing 
further  occurred  to  him.  That  gave  him  a  possible 
reprieve;  all  else  offered  sure  disaster.  He  rose, 
and  walked  slowly  toward  his  home,  revolving,  test 
ing,  the  various  aspects  of  the  trip  to  Sprucesap ;  at 
once  deciding  upon  that  venture,  and  repeating  to 
himself  the  incontestable  fact  of  its  utter  folly. 

The  dark  was  intense,  blue-black,  about  his  dwell 
ing.  He  struck  a  match  at  the  edge  of  the  porch, 
a  pointed,  orange  exclamation  on  the  impenetrable 
gloom.  Clare,  weary  of  waiting,  had  gone  to  bed; 
her  door  was  shut,  her  window  tightly  closed.  The 
invisible  stream  gurgled  sadly  past  its  banks,  the 
whippoorwills  throbbed  with  ceaseless,  insistent  pas 
sion. 

A  sudden,  jumbled  vision  of  the  past  woven  about 
this  dwelling,  his  home,  wheeled  through  Gordon's 
mind,  scenes  happy  and  unhappy;  prevailing  want 
and  slim,  momentary  plenty;  his  father  dead,  in  his 
coffin  with  a  stony,  pinched  countenance,  a  jaw  still 
unrelaxed  above  the  bright  flag  that  draped  his  non 
descript  uniform.  Later  events  followed — his 
elder,  vanished  brother  bullying  him;  the  brief  ro- 

[50] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

mance  of  his  sister's  courtship;  the  high,  strident 
voice  of  his  mother,  that  had  always  reminded  him 
of  her  angry  red  nose — events  familiar,  sordid,  un 
lovely,  but  now  they  seemed  all  of  a  piece  of  desir 
able,  melancholy  happiness;  they  endowed  with  a 
hitherto  unsuspected  value  every  board  of  the  rough 
footing  of  the  Makimmon  dwelling,  every  rood  of 
the  poor,  rocky  soil,  the  weedy  grass.  He  said 
aloud,  in  a  subdued,  jarring  voice,  "By  God,  but 
Simmons  won't  get  it! "  But  the  dreary  whippoor- 
wills,  the  feverish  crickets,  offered  him  no  confirma 
tion,  no  assurance. 


[51] 


IX 

AT  noon,  on  the  day  following,  he  stood  on 
the  top  of  Cheap  Mountain,  gazing  back 
into  the  deep,  verdant  cleft  of  Greenstream. 
From  Cheap  the  reason  for  its  name  was  clear — it 
flowed  now  direct,  now  turning,  in  a  vivid  green 
stream  along  the  bases  of  its  mountainous  ranges ;  it 
flowed  tranquil  and  dark  and  smooth  between  banks 
of  tangled  saplings,  matted,  multifarious  under 
brush,  towering,  venerable  trees.  It  slipped  like  a 
river,  bearing  upon  its  balmy  surface  the  promise  of 
asylum,  of  sleep,  of  plenty,  through  the  primitive, 
ruthless  forest,  which  in  turn  pressed  upon  it  every 
where  the  menace  of  its  oblivion,  its  fierce,  stran 
gling  life. 

He  saw  below  him  stretches  of  the  steep,  rocky 
trail  by  which  he  had  mounted  with  the  mounting 
sun;  both  had  now  reached  the  zenith  of  their  day's 
journey;  from  there  he  would  sink  into  the  shadow, 
the  secretiveness,  of  night.  .  .  .  Greenstream  vil 
lage  lay  twenty-eight  miles  behind ;  it  was  seventeen 
more  to  Sprucesap:  he  hurried  forward. 

In  his  pocket  rested  not  the  thirty  dollars,  to  which 
[52] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

he  had  limited  himself  in  thought,  but  his  entire 
month's  salary, — he  might  lose  all  by  the  lack  of  a 
paltry  dollar  or  so. 

He  was  dressed  with  more  care  than  on  the  day 
previous :  he  wore  a  dark  suit,  the  coat  to  which  now 
swung  on  a  stick  over  his  shoulder,  a  rubber  collar, 
a  tie  of  orange  brocade  erected  on  a  superstructure 
of  cardboard ;  his  head  was  covered  by  a  hard,  black 
felt  hat,  pushed  back  from  his  sweating  brow,  and 
his  trousers  hung  from  a  pair  of  obviously  home- 
knitted,  yarn  suspenders.  He  shifted  the  stick  from 
right  to  left.  His  revolver  dragged  chafing  against 
a  leg,  and  he  removed  it  and  thrust  it  into  a  pocket 
of  the  coat. 

He  followed  by  turn  an  old  rutted  postroad  and 
faint,  forest  trails,  and  shortened  distances  by  break 
ing  through  the  trackless  underbrush,  watching  sub 
consciously  for  rattlesnakes.  The  sun  slowly  de 
clined,  its  rays  fell  diagonally,  lengthening,  through 
the  trees ;  in  a  glade  the  air  seemed  filled  with  gold 
dust;  the  sky  burned  in  a  single  flame  of  apricot. 
The  air,  rather  than  grow  dark,  appeared  to  thicken 
with  raw  color,  with  mauve  and  ultramarine,  silver 
and  cinnabar. 

When  he  arrived  at  the  little,  deeply-grassed  plain 
that  held  Sprucesap,  it  was  bathed  in  a  flaring  after 
glow,  a  magical,  floating  light.  A  double  row  of 
board  structures  faced  each  other  across  a  street  of 

[53] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

raw  clay  and  narrow,  wood  sidewalks;  they  were, 
for  the  most  part,  unpainted,  hasty  erections  of  a 
single  story.  A  building  labelled  the  Steel  Spud 
Hotel  was  more  pretentious.  The  others  were  eating 
houses,  stores  with  small  windows  filled  with  a 
threatening  miscellany — revolvers,  leather  slung 
shots  and  brass  knuckles,  besides  lumbering  boots, 
gaudy  Mackinaw  jackets,  gleaming  knives  and  am 
munition.  Beyond  the  street  a  single  car  track  ran 
precariously  over  the  green,  and  ended  abruptly, 
without  roadbed  or  visible  terminus ;  at  one  side  was 
a  rude  platform,  on  the  other  a  great  pile  of  bark, 
rotting  from  long  exposure — the  result  of  some  arti 
ficial  condition  of  the  market,  the  spite  of  powerful 
and  vindictive  merchants. 

A  second  hotel  stood  alone,  beyond  the  car  tracks, 
and  there  Gordon  removed  the  marks  of  his  journey, 
resettled  his  collar  and  the  resplendent  tie.  He  felt 
in  his  coat  for  the  revolver,  in  order  to  transfer  it 
to  a  more  convenient  pocket.  ...  Its  bulk,  appar 
ently,  evaded  his  fingers.  His  search  quickened — 
it  had  gone !  He  had  lost  it  somewhere  on  his  long, 
devious  passage  of  Cheap  Mountain.  Without  it 
he  would  be  in  the  power  of  any  spindling  gambler 
who  faced  a  dishonest  ace.  It  would  be  necessary 
to  procure  another  weapon  before  proceeding  with 
his  purpose  ...  ten  dollars,  perhaps  fifteen;  re 
volvers  were  highly  priced  in  the  turbulent  distant 

[54] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

wild.  Could  he  afford  to  lose  that  amount  from  his 
slender  store  of  dollars  ?  Intact  it  was  absurdly  in 
adequate.  He  debated  the  choice — on  one  hand 
the  peril  of  gambling  unarmed,  on  the  other  his  des 
perate  need  for  money.  Once  more  he  considered 
Clare:  in  the  end  his  arrogance  of  manhood  brought 
a  decision — he  would  preserve  the  money  for  play. 
He  was,  he  thought  insolently  of  himself,  quick  as  a 
copperhead  snake,  and  as  dangerous.  After  supper 
he  sat  on  the  porch,  twisting  and  consuming  ciga 
rettes,  waiting  for  the  night. 


[55] 


LARGE  kerosene  lamps  dilated  by  tin  re 
flectors  lit  the  front  of  the  Steel  Spud.  In 
their  radiance  he  saw  the  gaily-attired  form 
of  a  woman.  She  wore  a  white  hat,  with  a  sweep 
ing,  white  ostrich  plume,  which  hid  her  face  with 
the  exception  of  a  retreating  chin  and  prominent, 
carmine  lips;  while  a  fat,  unwieldy  body  was  cov 
ered  by  a  waist  of  Scotch  plaid  silk — lines  and 
squares  of  black  and  primary  colors — and  a  short, 
scant  skirt  of  blue  broadcloth  that,  drawn  up  by  her 
knees,  exposed  small  feet  in  white  kid  and  heavy 
ankles. 

Gordon  Makimmon  paused,  and  she  leaned  for 
ward  to  meet  his  challenging  gaze.  "Just  in  from 
camp?"  she  inquired,  in  a  voice  hoarse,  repellent, 
conciliatory,  and  with  a  mechanical  grimace  which 
he  identified  as  a  smile.  He  stopped  at  the  invita 
tion  in  her  tones,  and  nodded.  "And  looking  for  a 
good  time/'  he  further  informed  her;  "perhaps  a  lit 
tle  game." 

"Stop  right  where  you  are,"  she  declared. 
"You've  found  them  both."  He  mounted  to  the 
porch,  and  shook  her  extended  hand,  cushioned  with 

[56] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

fat,  and  oddly  damp  and  lifeless.  He  could  see  her 
countenance  now — it  was  plaster  white  with  insig 
nificant  features  and  rose  like  an  amorphous  column 
from  a  swollen  throat,  a  nose  like  a  dab  of  putty, 
eyes  obscured  by  drooping,  pouchy  lids,  leaden- 
hued. 

"It's  a  good  thing  you  seen  me,"  she  told  him,  en* 
deavoring  to  establish  a  relationship  of  easy  confi 
dence,  "instead  of  them  diseased  Mags  down  the 
street.  Shall  we  have  a  little  drink  upstairs?" 

"It's  early,"  he  negligently  interposed;  "how 
about  a  turn  of  the  cards  first  ?  do  you  know  any  one 
who  would  take  a  hand?" 

"I  got  my  friend  here,  and  there's  a  gentleman 
at  the  hotel  would  accommodate  us.  They're  in 
side."  She  rose,  and  moved  toward  the  door,  wav 
ing  him  to  follow.  Her  slow,  clumsy  body  and 
chinless,  full-lidded  head  reminded  him  of  a  turtle; 
she  gave  a  still  deeper  amphibious  impression — 
there  was  something  markedly  cold-blooded,  in 
human,  deleted,  in  her  incongruous,  gaudy  bulk — 
an  impression  of  a  low,  primitive  organism,  the  sub 
tle  smell  of  primal  mud. 

"Jake!"  she  called  at  the  entrance  to  the  crude 
hotel  office;  "Jake!  Mr.  Ottinger!  here's  a  gentle 
man  wants  a  little  game." 

Two  men  hastily  rose  and  advanced  toward  the 
door.  The  first,  Jake,  was  small,  with  the  narrow, 

[57] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

high  shoulders,  the  long,  pale  face,  the  long,  pale 
hands,  of  a  cripple.  The  other,  a  young  man  with 
a  sodden  countenance  discolored  by  old  purplish 
'bruises,  wore  a  misfitting  suit  that  drew  across 
heavy,  bowed  shoulders,  thick,  powerful  arms.  He 
regarded  Gordon  Makimmon  with  no  light  dawning 
upon  his  lowering  face;  no  greeting  disturbed  the 
dark,  hard  line  of  his  mouth.  But  the  other,  with 
an  apparently  hearty,  stereotyped  flow  of  words,  ap 
plauded  Gordon's  design,  approved  his  qualities  of 
sportsmanship,  courage. 

"Give  me  the  man  from  the  woods  for  an  open- 
handed  sport,''  he  vociferated;  "he  ain't  a  fool 
neither,  he's  wise  to  the  time  of  night.  The  city 
crowd,  the  wise  ones,  are  the  real  ringside  marks." 

"Come  up  to  my  room,"  the  woman  directed  from 
the  foot  of  a  stairway;  "where  no  amateur  John 
Condons  will  tell  us  how  to  play  our  cards.  I  got 
some  good  liquor,  too." 

In  her  room  she  lit  a  small  lamp,  which  proved 
insufficient,  and  Mr.  Ottinger  brought  a  second  from 
his  quarters.  Gordon  found  himself  in  a  long,  nar 
row  chamber  furnished  with  two  wooden  beds,  two 
identical,  insecure  bureaus,  stands  with  wash  basins 
and  pitchers,  and  a  table.  The  floor,  the  walls,  the 
ceiling,  were  resinous  yellow  pine,  and  gave  out  a 
hot,  dry  smell  from  which  there  was  no  escape  but 
the  door,  for  the  room  was  without  other  outlet. 

[581 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

A  preliminary  drink  was  indispensable;  and, 
served  in  two  glasses  and  a  cracked  toothbrush  mug 
— Mr.  Ottinger  elected  to  imbibe  his  "straight" 
from  the  bottle — it  was  drunk  with  mutual  assur 
ances  of  tender  regard.  "Happy  days,"  the  woman 
pronounced.  Only  three  chairs  were  available,  and 
after  some  shuffling,  appropriate  references  to  "hon 
est  and  plain"  country  accommodations,  the  table 
was  ranged  by  a  bed  on  which  Em — "Call  me  Em," 
she  had  invited  Gordon,  "let's  be  real  homelike," — 
seated  herself. 

The  smaller  man  ostentatiously  broke  the  seal 
from  a  new  pack  of  cards,  dexterously  spreading 
them  across  the  table.  His  hands,  Gordon  saw, 
were  extraordinarily  supple,  and  emanated  a  sickly 
odor  of  glycerine.  His  companion's  were  huge  and 
misshapen,  but  they,  too,  were  surprisingly  deft, 
quick. 

"What'll  it  be?"  Jake  demanded;  "Jackpots; 
stud;  straight  draw — " 

"Hell,  let's  throw  cold  hands,"  Mr.  Ottinger  in 
terrupted,  "chop  the  trimmings.  We're  here  for 
the  stuff,  ain't  we?"  He  was  immediately  repre 
hended  for  his  brusque,  unsociable  manner. 

"He's  got  the  idea,  though,"  Gordon  approved; 
"we're  here  for  the  stuff."  It  was  finally  arranged 
that  poker  hands  should  be  dealt,  a  draw  allowed, 
and  the  cards  shown,  the  highest  cards  to  take  the 

[59] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

visible  money.  "A  dollar  a  go?"  Jake  queried, 
cutting  for  the  deal.  On  the  bed  by  the  woman's 
side  was  a  tarnished,  silver  bag,  with  an  ornate, 
meretricious  clasp;  her  two  companions  produced 
casual  rolls  of  paper  money;  and  Gordon  detached 
five  dollars  from  the  slender  amount  of  his  wage, 
his  paramount  capital.  On  a  washstand,  within 
easy  reach,  stood  the  bottle  of  whisky  flanked  by  the 
motley  array  of  drinking  vessels. 

Gordon  Makimmon's  five  dollars  vanished  in  as 
many  minutes.  Oppressed  by  consuming  anxiety 
he  could  scarcely  breathe  in  the  close,  stale  air.  Em 
gambled  with  an  affectation  of  careless  indifference; 
she  asked  in  an  off-hand  manner  for  cards;  paid 
her  losses  with  a  loud  laugh.  Jake  invariably  gave 
one  rapid  glance  at  his  hand,  and  then  threw  it 
down  upon  the  table  without  separating  his  discard. 
Mr.  Ottinger,  it  was  plain,  was  superstitious — he 
edged  his  hand  open  by  imperceptible  degrees  until 
the  denominations  of  the  cards  were  visible,  then 
hurriedly  closed  them  from  sight;  often  he  didn't 
look  at  his  draw  until  all  the  hands  were  exposed. 
He  wrinkled  his  face  in  painful  efforts  of  concentra 
tion,  protruded  a  thick  and  unsavory  tongue.  At 
the  loose  corners  of  Jake's  mouth  flecks  of  saliva 
gathered  whitely ;  in  the  fleering  light  of  the  kerosene 
the  shadows  on  his  face  were  cobalt.  The  woman's 
face  shown  with  drops  of  perspiration  that  formed 

[60] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

slowly  and  rolled  like  a  flash  over  her  plastered 
skin. 

Another  round  of  drinks  was  negotiated,  adding 
to  the  fiery  discomfort  of  the  sealed  room,  of  the 
dry,  dead  atmosphere.  Gordon  won  back  his  five 
dollars,  and  gained  five  more.  "Let's  make  it  two 
a  throw,"  the  woman  proposed.  The  thickset, 
young  man  remuttered  the  period  that  they  were 
there  for  the  stuff.  "Otty  will  have  his  little  joke," 
she  proclaimed. 

"It's  not  funny,"  he  protested  seriously. 

"Two?"  Jake  demanded  of  Gordon.  The  lat 
ter  nodded. 


[61] 


XI 

LATE  in  the  night  they  were  still  playing 
without  a  change  in  their  positions.  Em 
still  perspired;  but  Mr.  Ottinger  no  longer 
protruded  his  tongue,  a  sullen  anger  was  evident  in 
his  every  move;  Jake's  affable  flow  of  conversation 
was  hushed;  Gordon's  face  set.  It  was,  indisput 
ably,  not  funny — he  had  won  nearly  two  hundred 
dollars.  "Make  it  ten?"  Jake  queried.  The  others 
nodded.  Now  Gordon  had  two  hundred  and  twenty 
dollars;  an  extraordinary,  overwhelming  luck  pre 
sided  over  his  cards,  he  won  more  frequently  than 
the  other  three  together.  A  tense  silence  enveloped 
the  latter:  they  shuffled,  demanded  cards,  threw 
down  their  hands,  in  a  hurried,  disorganized  fash 
ion.  They  glanced,  each  at  the  other,  swiftly;  it 
was  evident  that  a  common  idea,  other  than  the 
game,  possessed  them.  Jake  hovered  a  breath 
longer  than  necessary  over  the  bottle,  then  pressed 
a  drink  upon  Gordon.  He  refused;  this,  he  recog 
nized,  was  not  a  time  for  dissipation;  he  needed 
every  faculty. 

Two  hundred  and  sixty  dollars.     The  air  of  sup 
pression,  of  tension,  increased.     Gordon's  only  con- 

[62] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

cern  now  was  to  get  away,  to  take  the  money  with 
him. 

Em  shuffled  in  a  slipshod,  inattentive  manner; 
Mr.  Ottinger  opened  his  hand  boldly,  faced  his  bad 
luck  with  a  stony  eye;  Jake  labored  under  a  painful 
excitement,  obviously  not  connected  with  his  losses; 
his  long,  waxy  fingers  quivered,  a  feverish  point 
of  fire  flickered  in  either  cadaverous  cheek;  his  eyes 
glowed  between  hollow,  sunken  temples.  "Four," 
he  demanded,  with  shaking  lips.  Mr.  Ottinger 
rapped  out  a  request  for  one.  "I'm  satisfied,"  Gor 
don  said. 

"Don't  that  sucker  beat  hell!"  Em  declared,  the 
solicitous  manner  that,  earlier  in  the  evening,  had 
marked  her  manner  toward  Gordon,  carelessly  dis 
carded.  "I'm  taking  three."  A  sudden,  visible 
boredom  fell  upon  her  as  she  glanced  at  her  filled 
hand.  "Leave  us  double  it,"  she  remarked.  Gor 
don  nodded,  and  she  threw  her  hand  upon  the  table ; 
it  held  four  nines.  She  reached  her  fat,  chalky  arm 
toward  the  money,  but  Gordon  was  before  her. 
"Four  queens,"  he  shot  out,  grasping  the  crumpled 
bills. 

Em  cursed;  then  followed  a  short,  awkward  si 
lence.  It  was  Ottinger's  deal,  but  he  did  not  pick 
up  the  scattered  cards.  Gordon  gathered  himself 
alertly,  measuring  the  distance  to  the  door.  "I've 
got  enough,"  he  remarked;  "I'm  going  to  quit." 

[63] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

''You  got  enough,  all  right,"  Em  agreed.  "Now, 
liow'd  you  like  to  have  a  real  good  time?"  She  dis 
posed  herself  upon  her  elbow,  so  that  the  sagging 
bulk  of  her  body  was  emphasized  through  its  strain 
ing  apparel;  one  leg,  incredible,  leviathan,  was 
largely  visible. 

"I've  had  enough,"  Gordon  repeated;  "I'll  be 
moving." 

Em  rose  quickly,  losing  her  air  of  coquetry. 
Gordon  was  facing  the  men,  and  was  unprepared  for 
the  heavy  blow  she  dealt  upon  the  back  of  his  neck. 
"Hang  it  on  him,  Otty ! "  she  cried  excitedly. 

Mr.  Ottinger  shoved  the  card  table  from  his  path. 
It  was  now  evident  that  it  was,  precisely,  to  "hang 
it  on"  whoever  might  be  elected  for  that  delicate 
attention  which  formed  Otty's  purpose,  profession, 
preoccupation,  in  life.  He  was,  for  a  heavy  man, 
active;  and,  before  Gordon  Makimmon  could  put 
out  a  protective  arm,  he  returned  the  latter  to  the 
perpendicular  with  a  jarring  blow  on  the  chin. 
Jake  whipped  out  from  a  place  of  concealment  on 
his  person  a  plaited  leather  weapon  with  a  globular 
end. 

It  was  Jake,  Gordon  instinctively  knew,  who 
threatened  him  most;  he  could  easily  stop  the  hulk 
ing  shape  before  him.  He  regained  his  poise,  and 
returned  blow  for  blow  with  Mr.  Ottinger;  neither 
man  guarded,  both  were  solely  intent  upon  marking, 

[64] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

crippling,  the  other.  A  chair  fell,  sliding  across  the 
floor;  a  washstand  collapsed  with  a  splintering  crash 
of  china,  a  miniature  flood.  Em  stood  on  the  out 
skirts  of  the  conflict,  armed  with  the  whisky  bottle; 
Jake  crouched  watchful  with  the  leather  club.  Gor 
don  cut  his  opponent's  face  with  short,  vicious  jabs; 
he  was,  as  customary,  cold — he  saw  clearly  where 
every  blow  fell;  he  saw  Otty's  nose  grotesquely 
shapeless  and  blackened ;  he  felt  Otty's  teeth  cut  the 
skin  of  his  knuckles  and  break  off;  he  heard  his  in 
voluntary  gasp  as  he  struck  him  a  hammer-like  blow 
over  the  heart. 

Mr.  Ottinger,  in  return,  hit  him  frequently  and 
with  effect.  Gordon  was  conscious  of  a  warm, 
gummy  tide  spreading  over  his  face,  he  saw  with 
difficulty  through  rapidly  closing  eyes.  "For  Cri's 
sake,"  Otty  gasped,  "get  to  him,  the  town'll  be  on 


us." 


Em  made  an  ineffectual  lunge  with  the  bottle. 
Gordon  swung  the  point  of  his  elbow  into  her  side, 
and  she  sat  on  the  bed  with  a  "G-G-God!"  Jake 
hit  him  with  the  club  on  the  shoulder  blade;  numb 
ness  radiated  from  the  struck  point ;  there  was  a  loss 
of  power  in  the  corresponding  arm.  Jake  hit  him 
again,  and  a  stabbing  pain  entered  his  side  and 
stayed  apparently  tangled  in  splintered  bone.  He 
paused  for  a  moment,  and  all  three  fell  upon  him, 
beating,  clubbing,  kicking.  He  fought  on,  now 

[65] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

rapidly  losing  power.  The  woman  threw  herself  on 
his  back,  forced  him  to  his  knees.  "Won't  none  of 
you  do  for  him?"  she  complained  hysterically.  She 
pressed  his  head  into  her  breast,  and  Mr.  Ottinger 
hit  him  below  and  just  back  of  his  ear.  Gordon 
slipped  out  full  length  on  the  floor. 

He  was  waveringly  conscious,  but  he  had  lost  all 
interest,  all  sense  of  personal  connection,  with  the 
proceedings.  He  dully  watched  Ottinger  draw 
back,  tenderly  fingering  his  damaged  features;  he 
saw  Em  breathing  stormily,  empurpled.  Jake,  with 
the  crimson  flames  in  his  long,  pallid  mask,  the 
white  saliva  flecking  his  jaw,  hung  over  him  with  a 
glassy,  intent  stare. 

"Get  the  stuff,"  the  practical  Ottinger  urged; 
"it's  the  stuff  we're  after.  Don't  go  bug  again." 

"Jake  don't  hear  you,"  Em  told  him,  "he's  off. 
I'm  glad  the  fella's  going  to  be  fixed,  he  jolted  me 
something  fierce." 

Jake  swung  the  little,  flexuous  club  softly  against 
his  palm,  and  Gordon  suddenly  realized  that  the 
cripple  intended  to  kill  him. — That  was  the  lust 
which  transfigured  the  gambler's  countenance,  which 
lit  the  fires  in  the  deathly  cheeks,  set  the  long  fingers 
shaking.  Gordon  considered  the  idea,  and,  ob 
scurely,  it  troubled  him,  moved  him  a  space  from 
his  apathy.  Instinctively,  in  response  to  a  sudden 
movement  of  the  figure  above  him,  he  drew  his  arm 

[66] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

up  in  front  of  his  head ;  and  an  intolerable  pain  shot 
up  through  his  shoulder  and  flared,  blindingly,  in 
his  eyes.  It  pierced  his  indifference,  set  in  motion 
his  reason,  his  memory;  he  realized  the  necessity,  the 
danger,  of  his  predicament  .  .  .  the  money! — he 
must  guard  it,  take  it  back  with  him.  Above,  in  a 
heated,  orange  mist,  the  woman's  face  loomed  blank 
and  inhuman;  farther  back  Mr.  Ottinger's  features 
were  indistinctly  visible. 

He  must  rise.  .  .  . 

His  groping  hand  caught  hold  of  the  rung  of 
the  chair,  and,  with  herculean  labor,  he  turned  and 
raised  himself  a  fraction  from  the  floor.  Jake  di 
rected  a  hasty  blow  at  his  head  that  missed  him  al 
together.  His  other  hand  caught  the  chair,  and  he 
dragged  himself  dizzily  into  a  kneeling  posture.  A 
sudden  change  swept  over  the  three  above  him. 

"Nail  him  where  he  is!"  Em  cried  excitedly; 
"he's  getting  up  on  you."  Gordon's  hands  moved 
uncertainly  upward  on  the  chair ;  his  knees  rose  from 
the  floor.  A  shower  of  blows  fell  on  him;  the 
woman  beat  him  with  her  pudgy  fists ;  Mr.  Ottinger 
was  kicking  at  him;  Jake  was  weeping,  and  endeav 
oring  to  get  room  in  which  to  swing  his  club. 

Gordon  had  one  foot  on  the  floor. 

"Give  me  a  chance  at  him,"  Jake  implored;  "give 
me  a  chance.  God,  if  I  had  a  knife." 

If  they  took  away  the  chair,  Gordon  knew,  he  wa§ 
[67] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

lost.  He  clung  to  it;  pressed  his  breast  against  it; 
crept  upward  by  means  of  it,  slowly,  slowly,  through 
a  storm  of  battering  hands.  It  seemed  to  him  that, 
in  rising,  he  was  shouldering  aside  the  entire  weight, 
the  forces,  of  a  universe,  bent  on  his  destruction,  and 
against  which  he  was  determined  to  prevail.  It  was 
as  though  his  will,  the  vitality  which  animated  him, 
which  was  his  soul,  stood  aside  from  his  beaten  and 
suffering  body,  and,  with  a  cold,  a  cruel,  detachment, 
commanded  it  upright. 

The  woman's  bulk  got  in  Jake's  way,  and  he 
struck  her  across  the  eyes  with  the  back  of  his  hand, 
consigning  her  to  eternal  hell.  Mr.  Ottinger,  con 
fused  by  the  irregularity  of  the  turmoil,  worked  in 
efficiently,  swinging  at  random  his  hard  fists,  kick 
ing  impartially. 

Gordon  now  had  both  feet  upon  the  floor;  he 
straightened  up.  For  a  breath  the  three  stood  mo 
tionless,  livid ;  and  in  that  instant  his  hand  fell  upon 
the  door  knob,  he  staggered  back  into  the  hall,  car 
rying  with  him  a  vision  of  his  brocaded  tie  lying 
upon  the  floor. 


[68] 


XII 

HE  stumbled  hastily  down  the  stairway,  and 
found  the  narrow  porch,  the  serene,  en 
veloping  night;  down  the  street  lamps 
made  blots  of  brightness,  but,  beyond,  the  obscurity 
was  profound,  unbroken.  Wave  after  wave  of 
nausea  swept  over  him,  he  clung  to  a  porch  support 
with  cold  sweat  starting  through  the  blood  that 
smeared  his  countenance,  stiffened  in  his  shirt,  that 
was  warm  upon  his  side.  The  sound  of  footfalls, 
sharp,  repressed  voices  from  above,  stirred  him  into  a 
fresh  realization  of  his  precarious  position.  The 
gamblers  would  follow  him,  rob  him  with  impunity 
in  the  shadows  of  Sprucesap's  lawless  street,  drag 
him  behind  the  angle  of  a  building,  where  Jake 
would  have  ample  scope  for  the  swinging  of  his 
leathered  lead.  .  .  . 

He  lurched  down  to  the  street,  and  silently  merged 
into  the  awaiting  night. 

At  dawn  he  appeared  from  a  thicket,  a  mile  be 
yond  Sprucesap  on  the  road  to  Greenstream,  and 
negotiated  successfully  a  ride  on  a  load  of  fragrant 
upland  hay  to  a  point  within  a  few  miles  of  his  des- 

[69] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

tination.  His  coat,  soiled  and  torn,  was  buttoned 
across  a  bare  throat,  for  his  shirt  had  been  ripped 
into  bandages;  his  face,  apparently,  had  been  har 
rowed  for  a  red  planting;  he  moved  awkwardly, 
breathed  with  a  gasp  from  a  stabbing  pain  in  the 
side  ,  .  .  but  he  moved,  breathed.  He  drank  with 
long  delight  from  a  sparkling  spring.  He  had  the 
money,  two  hundred  and  eighty  dollars,  safely  in  his 
pocket. 


[70] 


XIII 

THE  afternoon  was  waning  when  he  gazed 
again  into  the  deep,  sombrous  rift  of  Green- 
stream:  from  where  Gordon  stood,  on  the 
heights,  in  the  flooding  sun,  it  appeared  to  be  already 
evening  below.  As  he  descended  the  mountainside 
the  cool  shadows  rose  about  him,  enveloping  him  in 
the  quietude,  the  sense  of  security,  which  brooded 
over  the  withdrawn  valley — the  resplendent  mirage 
of  nature  kind,  beneficent,  the  illusion  of  Nature  as 
a  tender  and  loving  parent  ...  of  Nature,  as  im 
minent,  as  automatic,  as  a  landslip  crushing  a  path 
to  the  far,  secret  resting  place  of  its  destiny. 

Dr.  Pelliter's  light  carriage  with  its  pair  of  weedy, 
young  horses  stood  hitched  by  the  road  above  the 
Makimmon  dwelling;  and,  on  entering  the  house, 
Gordon  found  Clare  in  bed  and  Pelliter  seated  at 
her  side.  A  gaily-patched  quilt  hid  all  but  her 
head.  She  smiled  at  Gordon  through  her  pale  mask 
of  suffering;  but  her  greeting  turned  to  swift  con 
cern  at  his  battered  countenance.  "An  accident," 
he  explained  impatiently. 

The  doctor  greeted  him  seriously.  He  had,  Gor- 
[71] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

don  knew,  a  sovereign  and  inevitable  remedy  for  all 
the  ills  of  the  flesh — pain,  he  argued,  and  disease 
were  inseparable,  subdue  the  first  and  the  latter 
ceased  to  exist  as  an  active  ill,  and  a  dexterously 
wielded  hypodermic  needle  left  behind  him  a  trail 
of  narcotized  and  relieved  sufferers.  Bottles  of 
patent  medicines,  exhilarating  or  numbing  as  the 
purchaser  might  require,  lined  the  shelves  of  his 
drug  store. 

But  now  his  customary,  soothing  smile  was  ab 
sent,  the  small,  worn  case  that  contained  the  glitter 
ing  syringe  and  minute  bottles  filled  with  white  or 
vivid  yellow  pellets  was  not  to  be  seen. 

"Clare  here's  gone  and  got  herself  real  miser 
able,"  he  stated,  rising  and  beckoning  Gordon  to 
follow  him  to  the  porch.  "She's  bad,"  he  pro 
nounced  outside;  "that  pain's  got  the  best  of  her,  and 
it's  getting  the  best  of  me.  She  ought  to  be  cut,  but 
she's  so  weak,  it's  gone  so  long,  that  I'm  kind  of 
slow  about  opening  her.  And  the  truth  is,  Gordon, 
if  I  was  successful  she  wouldn't  have  a  chance  of 
getting  well  here — it'll  take  expert  nursing,  awful 
nice  food ;  and  then,  at  the  shortest,  she  would  be  in 
bed  a  couple  of  months.  She  ought  to  go  to  the 
hospital  in  Stenton.  That's  the  real  truth.  I'm 
telling  you  the  facts,  Gordon;  we  can't  handle  her 
here,  she'd  die  on  us." 

Gordon  only  half  comprehended  the  other's  words 
[72] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

— Clare  dangerously  ill  ...  a  question  of  dying, 
hospitals.  She  had  suffered  for  so  long  that,  with 
out  losing  his  sympathy  for  her,  it  had  seemed  to  him 
her  inevitable  condition.  It  had  fallen  naturally 
upon  him  to  care  for  her,  guard  her  against  damp, 
prevent  her  from  lifting  objects  beyond  her  strength. 
These  continuous,  small  attentions  held  an  impor 
tant  place  in  his  existence — he  thought  about  her  in  a 
mind  devoted  substantially  to  himself,  and  it 
brought  him  a  glow  of  contentment,  a  pleasant  feel 
ing  of  ministration  and  importance.  It  had  not  oc 
curred  to  him  that  Clare  might  grow  worse,  that  she 
might,  in  fact,  die.  The  idea  filled  him  with  sud 
den  dismay.  His  heart  contracted  with  a  sharp 
hurt.  "The  hospital,"  he  echoed  dully,  "Stenton." 

"By  rights,"  the  doctor  iterated;  "of  course  we'll 
do  what  we  can  here,  she  might  last  for  a  couple  of 
years  more  without  cutting;  and  then,  again,  her 
heart  might  just  quit.  Still — " 

"What  would  the  hospital  cost?"  Gordon  asked, 
almost  unaware  of  having  pronounced  the  words. 

"It'd  be  dear — two  hundred  and  some  dollars 
anyway,  and  the  money  on  the  nail.  The  nursing 
would  count  up;  then  there  would  be  something  for 
operating,  if  it  was  only  a  little  ...  a  lot  of  things 
you  don't  allow  for  would  turn  up." 

Two  hundred  and  more  dollars !  Gordon  had  a 
fleeting  vision,  against  the  empurpling  banks,  the 

[73] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

dark,  sliding  water,  and  the  mountainous  wall 
capped  with  dissolving  gold  beyond,  of  a  room  filled 
with  the  hot  glow  of  kerosene  lamps;  he  saw  Jake's 
twitching,  murderous  countenance  above  him.  .  .  . 
Two  hundred  dollars!  He  had  two  hundred  and 
eighty  dollars  in  his  pocket.  He  had  another  vision 
— of  Simmons ;  it  was  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars 
that  the  latter  wanted,  must  have,  to-morrow.  But 
Simmons  swiftly  faded  before  Clare's  need,  the  pres 
sure  of  sickness. 

"She  couldn't  go  down  in  the  stage,"  he  muttered, 
"the  shaking  would  kill  her  before  ever  she  got 
there." 

"I'll  drive  her  to  Stenton,  Gordon,"  the  doctor 
volunteered,  "if  you've  got  the  money  handy." 

"I've  got  her,"  Gordon  Makimmon  declared 
grimly. 

"I'll  take  her  right  to  the  hospital  and  give  her 
to  the  doctor  in  charge.  Everything  will  be  done 
for  her  comfort.  She  has  an  elegant  chance  of  pull 
ing  through,  there.  And  you  can  see  her  when  you 
go  down  with  the  stage — "  Pelliter  suddenly 
stopped;  he  appeared  disconcerted  by  what  he  had 
said. 

"Well,"  Gordon  demanded,  his  attention  held  by 
the  other's  manner,  "can't  I?" 

"You  were  away  from  Greenstream  yesterday 
and  to-day,"  the  doctor  replied  evasively,  "you 

[74] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

didn't  hear  ...  oh,  there's  nothing  in  it  if  you 
didn't.  I  heard  that  Simmons  had  had  you  taken 
off  the  stage.  Did  you  have  trouble  with  Buckley, 
cut  him  with  a  whip?  Buck  has  been  blowing 
about  showing  you  a  thing  or  two." 

A  feeling  of  angry  dismay  enveloped  Gordon. 
He  had  recognized,  obscurely,  that  Simmons  and  old 
man  Hollidew  dominated  the  community,  but  he  had 
never  before  come  in  actual  contact  with  their  arbi 
trary  power,  he  had  never  before  been  faced  by  the 
overmastering  weapon  of  their  material  possessions, 
the  sheer  weight  of  their  wealth.  It  stirred  him  to 
revolt,  elemental  and  bitter;  every  instinct  rose 
against  the  despotic  power  which  threatened  to  over 
whelm  him. 

"By  God! "  he  exclaimed,  "but  they  will  find  that 
I'm  no  sheep  to  drive  into  their  lot  and  shear! " 

"Now,  about  Clare,"  the  doctor  interposed. 

"When  will  you  come  for  her?"  Gordon  inquired. 
He  took  from  his  pocket  the  roll  of  money  he  had 
won  at  Sprucesap,  and  counted  two  hundred  dollars, 
which  he  tended  to  the  doctor. 

"To-morrow,  about  seven.  Everything  will  be 
done  for  her,  Gordon.  I  reckon  that's  only  an 
empty  splash  about  the  stage." 

The  dusk  had  thickened  in  Clare's  room;  he  could 
scarcely  distinguish  her  face  white  against  the  dark 
ened  squares  of  the  quilt.  "Whoever  will  get  your 

[75] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

supper,"  she  worried,  when  he  had  told  her;  "and 
the  cow'll  need  bedding,  and  those  cheeses  brought 
in  off  the  roof,  and — " 

He  closed  her  mouth  with  a  gentle  palm.  "I've 
done  'em  all  a  hundred  times,"  he  declared.  "We're 
going  to  get  you  right,  this  spell,  Clare,"  he  pro 
claimed;  "you'll  get  professional,  real  stylish,  care 
at  Stenton." 

She  rose,  trembling,  on  her  arms.  "Are  they  go 
ing  to  cut  at  me?"  she  asked. 

The  lie  on  his  lips  perished  silently  before  her 
grave  tones.  "It's  not  rightly  a  dangerous  opera 
tion,"  he  protested;  "thousands  come  out  of  it  every 
year." 

"Gordon,  I'm  afeared  of  it." 

"No,  you're  not,  Clare  Makimmon;  there's  not  a 
drop  of  fear  in  you." 

"It's  not  just  death  I'm  afeared  of,  it's — oh; 
you  will  never  understand  for  being  a  man,"  her 
voice  lowered  instinctively;  "somehow  I  hate  the 
thought  of  those  strange  men  hacking  and  spoiling 
my  body.  That's  just  foolishness,  I  know,  and  my 
time's  pretty  well  gone  for  foolishness.  I've  always 
sort  of  tended  my  body,  Gordon,  and  kept  it  white 
and  soft.  I  thought  if  a  man  asked  me  in  spite  of — 
well,  my  face,  he  could  take  pride  in  me  under 
neath.  But  that's  all  done  with;  I  ought  to  be  glad 
for  the  .  .  .  Gordon ! "  she  exclaimed  more  ener- 

[76] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

getically,  "it  will  cost  a  heap  of  money;  how  will  you 
get  it?  don't  borrow." 

"I  got  it,"  he  interrupted  her  tersely,  "and  I 
didn't  borrow  it  neither." 


[77] 


XIV 

HE  woke  at  dawn.  The  whippoorwills,  the 
frogs  and  crickets,  were  silent,  and  the 
sharp,  sweet  song  of  a  mocking  bird 
throbbed  from  a  hedge.  It  was  dark  in  the  valley, 
but,  high  above,  the  air  was  already  brightening 
writh  the  sun;  a  symmetrical  cloud  caught  the  solar 
rays  and  flushed  rosy  against  silver  space.  The 
valley  turned  from  indistinct  blue  to  grey,  to  spark 
ling  green.  The  sun  gilded  the  peaks  of  the  west 
ern  range,  and  slipped  slowly  down,  spilling  into 
the  depth.  It  was  almost  cold,  the  pump  handle, 
the  rough  sward,  the  foliage  beyond,  were  drenched 
with  white  dew;  a  damp,  misty  veil  lifted  from  the 
surface  of  the  stream. 

Clare  declared  that  she  felt  stronger;  she  dressed, 
insisted  upon  frying  his  breakfast.  "You  ought  to 
have  somebody  in,"  she  asserted  later.  They  were 
on  the  shallow  porch,  waiting  stiffly  for  the  doctor. 
"But  don't  get  that  eldest  of  your  sister's;  last  time 
she  wore  my  sateen  waist  and  run  the  colors." 

Just  as  she  was  leaving  he  slipped  twenty  dollars 
into  her  hand.  "Write  when  you  want  more,"  he 

[78] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

directed;  "and  I'll  be  down  to  see  you  .  .  .  yes, 
often  ...  the  stage."  A  leaden  depression  settled 
over  him  as  the  doctor's  carriage  took  her  from  sight. 
The  house  to  which  he  turned  was  deserted,  lonely. 
He  locked  the  door  to  her  room. 


[79] 


XV 

ONE  of  the  canvas-covered  mountain  wagons 
was   unloading   on   the   platform   before 
Simmons'  store  when  Gordon  entered  the 
center  of  the  village.     A  miscellaneous  pile  of  mer 
chandise  was  growing,  presided  over  by  a  clerk  with 
a  pencil  and  tally  book.     Valentine  Simmons,  with 
out  his  coat,  in  an  immaculate,  starched  white  waist 
coat,  stood  upon  one  side. 

Gordon,  without  delay,  approached  him.  "I  can 
give  you  a  hundred  dollars,"  he  informed  the  other, 
exhibiting  that  sum. 

"Two  hundred  and  fifty  will  be  necessary/'  Sim 
mons  informed  him  concisely,  "to-day." 

"Come  to  reason — " 

Valentine  Simmons  turned  his  back  squarely 
upon  him.  A  realization  of  the  uselessness  of  fur 
ther  words  possessed  Gordon ;  he  returned  the  money 
to  his  pocket.  The  contemptuous  neglect  of  the 
other  lit  the  ever-trimmed  lamp  of  his  temper. 
"What's  this,"  he  demanded,  "I  hear  about  driving 
stage?  about  Buck  boasting  around  that  he  had  had 
me  laid  off?" 

[80] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"That's  not  correct,"  Simmons  informed  him 
smoothly;  "Buckley  has  no  power  to  do  that  .  .  . 
the  owners  of  the  privilege  decided  that  you  were 
too  unreliable." 

"Then  it's  true,"  Gordon  interrupted  him,  "I'm 
off  ?"  Simmons  nodded.  Gordon's  temper  swelled 
and  flared  whitely  before  his  vision;  rage  possessed 
him  utterly;  without  balance,  check,  he  was  no  more 
than  an  insensate  force  in  the  grip  of  his  mastering 
passion.  He  would  stop  that  miserable,  black  heart 
forever.  Old  Valentine  Simmons'  lips  tightened, 
his  fingers  twitched;  he  turned  his  back  deliberately 
upon  Gordon.  The  metal  buckle  which  held  the 
strap  of  his  waistcoat  caught  the  sun  and  reflected 
it  into  Gordon's  eyes.  "How  many  gross  pink  cel 
luloid  rattles?"  the  storekeeper  demanded  of  the 
clerk. 

Gordon  Makimmon's  hand  crept  toward  his 
pocket  .  .  .  then  he  remembered — he  had  lost  that 
which  he  sought  ...  on  the  side  of  Cheap  Moun 
tain.  If  Simmons  would  turn,  say  something  fur 
ther,  taunt  him,  he  would  kill  him  with  his  hands. 
But  Simmons  did  none  of  these  things;  instead  he 
walked  slowly,  unharmed,  into  the  store. 


[811 


XVI 

GORDON  had  intended  to  avoid  the  vicinity 
of  the  Courthouse  on  the  day  of  the  sale  of 
his  home,  but  an  intangible  attraction  held 
him  in  its  neighborhood.  He  sat  by  the  door  to  the 
office  of  the  Greenstream  Bugle,  diagonally  across 
the  street.  Within,  the  week's  edition  was  going  to 
press;  a  burly  young  individual  was  turning  the 
cylinders  by  hand,  while  the  editor  and  owner  dex 
terously  removed  the  printed  sheets  from  the  press. 
The  office  was  indescribably  grimy,  the  rude  ceiling 
was  hung  with  dusty  cobwebs,  the  windows  obscured 
by  a  grey  film.  A  small  footpress  stood  to  the  left 
of  the  entrance,  on  the  right  were  ranged  typesetter's 
cases  with  high,  precarious  stools,  a  handpress  for 
proof  and  a  table  to  hold  the  leaded  forms.  These, 
with  the  larger  press,  an  air-tight  sheet  iron  stove 
and  some  nondescript  chairs,  completed  the  office 
furnishings.  Over  all  hung  the  smell  of  mingled 
grease,  ink,  and  damp  paper,  flat  and  penetrating. 
Without,  the  sun  shone  ardently;  it  cast  a  rich 
pattern  of  light  and  shade  on  the  Courthouse  lawn 

[82] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

and  the  small  assemblage  of  merely  idle  or  inter 
ested  persons  gathered  for  the  sale.  The  sheriff 
stood  facing  them  under  the  towering  pillars  of  the 
portico;  his  voice  rang  clearly  through  the  air.  To 
Gordon  the  occasion,  the  loud  sing-song  of  the  sher 
iff,  appeared  unreal,  dreamlike ;  he  listened  incredu 
lously  to  the  meager  cataloguing  of  his  dwelling,  the 
scant  acreage,  with  an  innate  sense  of  outrage,  of  a 
shameful  violation  of  his  privacy.  He  was  still  un 
able  to  realize  that  his  home  and  his  father's,  the 
clearing  that  his  grandfather  had  cut  from  the  wild, 
was  actually  passing  from  his  possession.  He  sum 
moned  in  vain  the  emotions  which,  he  told  himself, 
were  appropriate.  The  profound  discouragement 
within  him  would  not  be  lifted  to  emotional  heights : 
lassitude  settled  over  him  like  a  fog. 

The  bidding  began  in  scattered,  desultory  fash 
ion,  mounting  slowly  by  hundreds.  Eighteen  hun 
dred  dollars  was  offered,  and  there  the  price  ob 
stinately  hung. 

The  owner  of  the  Bugle  appeared  at  his  door,  and 
nodded  mysteriously  to  Gordon,  who  rose  and  list 
lessly  obeyed  the  summons.  The  former  closed  the 
door  with  great  care,  and  lowered  a  faded  and  torn 
shade  over  the  front  window.  Then  he  retired  to  a 
small  space  divided  from  the  body  of  the  office  by 
a  curtain  suspended  from  a  sagging  wire.  He 
brought  his  face  close  to  Gordon's  ear.  "Have  a 

[83] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

nip?"  he  asked,  in  a  solemn,  guarded  fashion. 
Gordon  assented. 

A  bottle  was  produced  from  a  cupboard,  and,  to 
gether  with  a  tin  cup,  handed  to  him. 

"Luck,"  he  pronounced  half-heartedly,  raising 
the  cup  to  his  lips.  When  the  other  had  gone 
through  a  similar  proceeding  the  process  was  care 
fully  reversed  —  the  bottle  was  returned  to  the  cup 
board,  the  tin  cup  suspended  upon  its  hook,  the 
steps  retraced  and  the  curtain  once  more  coaxed  up, 
the  door  thrown  open. 

The  group  on  the  Courthouse  lawn  were  string 
ing  away;  on  the  steps  the  sheriff  was  conversing 
with  Valentine  Simmons'  brother,  a  drab  individual 
who  performed  the  storekeeper's  public  services  and 
errands.  The  sale  had  been  consummated.  The 
long,  loose- jointed  dwelling  accumulated  by  suc 
cessive  generations  of  Makimmons  had  passed  out  of 
their  possession. 

A  poignant  feeling  of  loss  flashed  through  Gor 
don's  apathy;  suddenly  his  eyes  burned,  and  an 
involuntary  sharp  inspiration  resembled  a  gasp,  a 
sob.  A  shadow  ran  over  the  earth.  The  owner  of 
the  Bugle  stepped  out  and  gazed  upward.  At  the 
sight  of  the  soft,  grey  clouds  assembling  above  an 
expression  of  determined  purpose  settled  upon  his 
dark  countenance.  He  hurried  into  the  office,  and 
reappeared  a  few  minutes  later,  a  peaked  corduroy 

[84] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

hat  drawn  over  his  eyes,  a  piece  of  pasteboard  in 
one  hand,  and,  under  his  arm,  a  long,  slender  bun 
dle  folded  in  black  muslin.  The  pasteboard  he  af 
fixed  to  the  door;  it  said,  "Gone  fishing.  Back  to 


morrow." 


[85] 


XVII 

MINUS  certain  costs  and  the  amount  of  his 
indebtedness  to  Valentine  Simmons,  Gor 
don  received  the  sum  of  one  thousand  and 
sixty  dollars  for  the  sale  of  his  house.     He  was  still 
sleeping  in  it,  but  the  day  was  near  when  he  must 
vacate.     The  greater  part  of  his  effects  were  gath 
ered  under  a  canvas  cover  on  the  porch,  Clare's  per 
sonal  belongings  were  still  untouched  in  her  room. 
He  must  wait  for  the  disposition  of  those  until  he 
had  learned  the  result  of  the  operation. 

He  heard  from  Clare  on  an  evening  when  he  was 
sitting  on  his  lonely  porch,  twisting  his  dextrous 
cigarettes,  and  brooding  darkly  on  the  mischances 
that  had  overtaken  him  of  late.  It  was  hot  and 
steamy  in  the  valley,  no  stars  were  visible ;  the  known 
world,  muffled  in  a  close  and  imponderable  cloak, 
was  without  any  sign  of  life,  of  motion,  of  variety. 
Gordon  heard  footsteps  descending  heavily  from 
the  road,  a  bulky  shape  loomed  up  before  him  and 
disclosed  the  features  of  Dr.  Pelliter. 

He  greeted  Gordon  awkwardly,  and  then  fell  mo 
mentarily  silent.  "She  sent  you  a  message,  Gor 
don,"  he  pronounced  at  last. 

[86] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"Clare's  dead,"  Gordon  replied  involuntarily. 
So  far  away,  he  thought,  and  alone.  .  .  .  He  must 
go  at  once  and  fetch  her  home.  He  rose. 

"Clare  said/'  the  doctor  continued,  "if  your  sis 
ter's  eldest  was  to  come  in  to  give  her  the  sateen 
waist."  An  extended  silence  fell  upon  the  men;  the 
whippoorwills  sobbed  and  sobbed;  the  stream  gur 
gled  past  its  banks.  Then: 

"By  God!"  Gordon  said  passionately,  "I  don't 
know  but  I'm  not  glad  Clare's  gone — Simmons  has 
got  our  house,  I'm  not  driving  stage  .  .  .  Clare 
would  have  sorrowed  herself  out  of  living.  Life's 
no  jig  tune." 

The  doctor  left.  Gordon  continued  to  sit  on  the 
porch;  at  intervals  he  mechanically  rolled  and  lit 
cigarettes,  which  glowed  for  a  moment  and  went  out, 
unsmoked.  The  feeling  of  depression  that  had 
cloaked  him  during  the  few  days  past  changed  im 
perceptibly  to  one  of  callous  indifference  toward  ex 
istence  in  general.  The  seeds  of  revolt,  of  insta 
bility,  which  Clare  and  a  measure  of  worldly 
position,  of  pressure,  had  held  in  abeyance,  germi 
nated  in  his  disorganized  mind,  his  bitter  sense  of 
injustice  and  injury.  He  hardened,  grew  defiant 
...  the  strain  of  lawlessness  brought  so  many  years 
before  from  warring  Scotch  highlands  rose  bright 
and  troublesome  in  him. 

[87] 


XVIII 

CLARE'S  body  was  brought  back  to  Green- 
stream  on  the  following  day.  His  sister 
and  her  numerous  brood  descended  solicit 
ously  upon  Gordon  later;  neighbors,  kindly  and  of 
ficious,  arrived  .  .  .  Clare  was  laid  out.  There 
were  sibilant,  whispered  conversations  about  a  mis 
laid  petticoat  with  a  mechlin  hem;  drawers  were 
searched  and  the  missing  garment  triumphantly  un 
earthed;  silk  mitts  were  discussed,  discarded;  the 
white  shoes — real  buck  and  a  topnotch  article — 
forced  on.  At  last  Clare  was  exhibited  in  the  room 
that  had  been  hers.  There  was  no  place  in  the 
Makimmon  dwelling  for  general  assemblage  but  the 
kitchen,  and  it  had  been  pointed  out  by  certain  deli 
cate  souls  that  the  body  and  the  preparations  for  the 
funeral  repast  would  accord  but  doubtfully.  Be 
sides,  the  kitchen  was  too  hot. 

Clare's  peaked,  blue-white  countenance  was  with 
drawn  and  strange  above  a  familiar,  harsh  black 
silk  dress ;  her  hands,  folded  upon  her  flat  breast,  lay 
in  a  doubled  attitude  dreadfully  impossible  to  life. 
A  thin  locket  of  gold  hung  on  a  chain  about  her  still 
throat.  The  odor  of  June  roses  that  filled  the  cor- 

[88] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

ners,  a  subdued,  red  riot  of  the  summer,  the  sun 
without,  was  overpowering. 

As  the  hour  appointed  for  the  funeral  approached 
a  gratifying  number  of  people  assembled:  the 
women  clustered  about  the  porch,  hovered  about  the 
door  which  opened  upon  the  remains;  while  the 
men  gathered  in  a  group  above  the  stream,  lingered 
by  the  fence.  A  row  of  dusty,  hooded  vehicles, 
rough-coated,  intelligent  horses,  were  hitched  above. 

The  minister  took  his  station  by  a  table  on  which 
a  glass  of  water  had  been  placed  upon  a  vivid  red 
cover:  he  portentously  cleared  his  throat.  "The 
Lord  giveth,"  he  began.  ...  It  was  noon,  pellu- 
cidly  clear,  still,  hot;  the  foliage  on  the  mountain 
sides  was  like  solid  walls  of  greenery  rising  to  a 
canopy,  a  veil,  of  azure.  Partridges  whistled  clear 
and  flutelike  from  a  nearby  cover ;  the  stream  flashed 
in  the  sun,  mirroring  on  its  unwrinkled  surface  the 
stiff,  somber  figures  gathered  for  the  funeral. 

The  droning  voice  of  the  preacher  drew  out  in 
terminably  through  the  sultry,  golden  hour. 
Women  sniffed  sharply,  dabbled  with  toil-hardened 
hands  at  their  eyes;  the  men,  standing  in  the  grass, 
shuffled  their  feet  uneasily.  "Let  us  pray,"  the 
speaker  dropped  upon  his  knees,  and  his  voice  rose, 
grew  more  insistent,  shrill  with  a  touch  of  hysteria. 
From  the  back  of  the  house  a  hen  clucked  in  an  ex 
cited,  aggravated  manner. 

[89] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

Gordon  Makimmon  stood  at  the  end  of  the  porch, 
morosely  ill  at  ease :  the  memories  of  Clare  as  a  girl, 
as  a  woman  going  about  and  performing  the  duties 
of  their  home,  the  dignity  of  his  sense  of  loss  and 
sorrow,  had  vanished  before  this  public  ceremony; 
they  had  sunk  to  perfunctory,  conventional  emotions 
before  the  glib  flood  of  the  paid  eulogist,  the  facile 
emotion  of  the  women. 

Suddenly  he  saw,  partially  hidden  by  the  dull 
dresses  of  the  older  women,  a  white,  ruffled  skirt, 
the  turn  of  a  young  shoulder,  a  drooping  straw  hat. 
A  meager,  intervening  form  moved,  and  he  saw  that 
Lettice  Hollidew  had  come  to  his  sister's  funeral. 
He  wondered,  in  a  momentary,  instinctive  resent 
ment,  what  had  brought  her  among  this  largely 
negligent  gathering.  She  had  barely  known  Clare; 
Gordon  was  not  certain  that  she  had  ever  been  in 
their  house.  He  could  see  her  plainly  now — she 
stood  clasping  white  gloves  with  firm,  pink  hands; 
her  gaze  was  lowered  upon  the  uneven  flooring  of 
the  porch.  He  could  see  the  soft  contour  of  her 
chin,  a  shimmer  of  warm,  brown  hair.  She  was 
crisply  fresh,  incredibly  young  in  the  group  of 
gaunt,  worn  forms;  her  ruffled  fairness  was  an  af 
front  to  the  thin,  rigid  shoulders  in  rusty  black,  the 
sallow,  deeply-bitten  faces  of  the  other  women. 

She  looked  up,  and  surprised  his  intent  gaze:  she 
flushed  slightly,  the  gloves  were  twisted  into  a  knot, 

[90] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

but  her  eyes  were  unwavering — they  held  an  appeal 
to  his  understanding,  his  sympathy,  not  to  be  mis 
taken.  It  was  evident  that  that  gaze  cost  her  an 
effort.  She  was,  Gordon  remembered,  a  diffident 
girl.  His  resentment  evaporated.  .  .  .  He  specu 
lated  upon  her  reason  for  coming;  and,  speculating, 
involuntarily  stood  more  erect.  With  a  swift,  sur 
reptitious  motion  he  straightened  his  necktie. 

The  Greenstream  cemetery  lay  aslant  on  a  rise 
above  the  village.  From  the  side  of  the  raw,  yel 
low  clay  hole  into  which  they  lowered  the  coffin 
Gordon  could  see,  beyond  the  black  form  of  the  min 
ister,  over  the  rows  of  uneven  roofs,  the  bulk  of  the 
Courthouse,  the  sweep  of  the  valley,  glowing  with 
multifarious  vitality. 

"Dust  to  dust,"  said  the  minister;  "ashes  to 
ashes,"  in  the  midst  of  the  warmf  the  resplendent, 
the  palpitating  day.  One  of  Gordon's  nephews — 
a  shock  of  tow  hair  rising  rebellious  against  an  ap 
plication  of  soap,  stubby,  scarred  hands,  shoes  obvi 
ously  come  by  in  their  descent  from  more  mature 
extremities — who  had  been  audibly  snuffling  for  the 
past  ten  minutes,  burst  into  a  lugubrious,  frightened 
wail.  Through  the  solemn,  appointed  periods  of 
the  minister  cut  the  sibilant,  maternal  promise  of  a 
famous  "whopping." 


[911 


XIX 

GORDON  thought  again  of  Lettice  Hollidew 
as  he  was  sitting  for  the  last  evening  on  the 
porch  of  the  dwelling  that  had  passed  out 
of  his  hands.     Twilight  had  poured  through  the 
valley,  thickening  beneath  the  trees,  over  the  stream; 
the  mountain  ranges  were  dark,  dusty  blue  against  a 
maroon  sky.     He  recalled  the  sympathy,  the  plea  for 
comprehension,  in  Lettice's  gaze,  lifted,  for  the  first 
time,  frankly  against  his  own. 

Hers  was  not  the  feminine  type  which  attracted 
him;  he  preferred  a  more  flamboyant  beauty,  ready 
repartee,  the  conscious  presence  and  employment  of 
the  lure  of  sex.  His  taste  had  been  fed  by  the  paid 
women  of  Stenton,  the  few,  blowsy,  loose  females  of 
the  mountains;  these  and  the  surface  chatter  of  the 
stage,  and  Clare,  formed  his  sole  knowledge,  experi 
ence,  surmising,  of  women.  He  recalled  Lettice 
condescendingly;  she  did  not  stir  his  pulses,  appeal 
to  his  imagination.  Yet  she  moved  his  pride,  his  in 
ordinate  self-esteem.  It  had  been  on  his  account, 
and  not  Clare's,  that  she  had  come  to  the  funeral. 
The  little  affair  with  Buckley  Simmons  had  cap- 

[92] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

tured  her  attention  and  interest;  he  had  not  thought 
Lettice  so  impressionable. 

It  was,  he  remembered,  Wednesday  night — there 
would  be  prayer-meeting  in  the  Methodist  Church; 
the  Hollidews  were  Methodists;  women,  mostly,  at 
tended  prayer  meeting.  If  he  strolled  about  in  that 
vicinity  he  might  see  Lettice  at  the  close  of  the  serv 
ice,  thank  her  for  attending  poor  Clare's  funeral. 

He  rose  and  negligently  made  his  way  through 
the  soft  gloom  past  the  Courthouse  to  the  Methodist 
Church.  The  double  doors  were  open,  and  a  flood 
of  hot  radiance  rolled  out  into  the  night,  together 
with  the  familiar  tones  of  old  Martin  Seeker  loudly 
importuning  his  invisible,  inscrutable  Maker. 
There  were  no  houses  opposite  the  church,  and,  bal 
anced  obscurely  on  the  fence  of  split  rails  against 
the  unrelieved  night,  a  row  of  young  men  smoked 
redly  glowing  cigarettes;  while,  on  the  ground  be 
low  them,  shone  the  lanterns  by  the  aid  of  which 
they  escorted  the  various  maidens  of  their  choice  on 
their  various  obscure  ways. 

The  prayer  stopped  abruptly,  and,  after  a  momen 
tary  silence,  the  dolorous  wail  of  a  small  organ  abet 
ted  a  stridulent  concourse  of  human  voices  lifted  in 
lamentable  song,  a  song  in  which  they  were  desirous 
of  being  winged  like  the  dove. 

The  sound  mounted  in  a  grievous  minor  into  the 
profound  stillness,  the  peace,  of  the  valley,  of  the 

[93] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

garment  of  stars  drawn  from  wall  to  wall.  There 
was  something  animal-like  in  its  long-drawn,  quav 
ering  note — like  the  baying  of  a  dog  out  of  the 
midst  of  his  troubled  darkness  at  the  remote,  silver 
serenity,  the  disturbing,  effortless  splendor,  of  the 
moon. 

The  line  of  figures  without,  sitting  on  the  fence 
with  their  feet  caught  under  the  second  rail,  smoked 
in  imperturbable,  masculine  indifference.  There 
was,  shortly,  a  stir  within,  a  moving  blur  of  figures 
in  the  opened  doors,  and  the  lanterns  swung  alertly  to 
the  foot  of  the  steps,  where,  one  by  one,  the  bobbing 
lights,  detached  from  the  constellation,  vanished  into 
the  night. 

Almost  immediately  Gordon  saw  Lettice  Hollidew 
standing  at  the  entrance,  awaiting  a  conversing 
group  of  older  women  at  the  head  of  the  aisle.  She 
recognized  him,  and  descended  immediately  with  a 
faint,  questioning  smile.  The  smile  vanished  as  she 
greeted  him;  her  eyes  were  dark  on  a  pale,  still 
countenance.  He  noticed  that  she  was  without  the 
heady  perfume  which  stirred  him  as  the  other  girls 
passed,  and  he  was  silently  critical  of  the  omission. 

He  delivered  quickly,  with  a  covert  glance  above, 
the  customary  period  about  seeing  her  home.  Im 
mediately  she  walked  with  him  into  the  obscurity,  the 
mystery,  of  the  night. 

[94] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

"It  was  certainly  nice-hearted  of  you  to  come  to 
Clare's  funeral,"  he  began. 

Close  beside  him  she  shivered,  it  might  be  at  the 
memory  of  that  occasion.  She  was  without  a  hat, 
and  he  was  able  to  study  her  profile :  it  was  irregu 
lar,  with  a  low,  girlish  brow  and  a  nose  too  heavy  for 
beauty;  she  had  a  full  under  lip  and  a  strongly 
modelled  chin,  a  firm  line  ending  in  a  generous 
throat,  milk-white  in  the  gloom.  Her  figure  too,  he 
judged,  was  too  heavy  for  his  standard  of  feminine 
charm.  His  interest  in  her  burned  low,  sustained 
only  by  what  he  recognized  as  a  conquest. 

She  walked  slowly  and  more  slowly  as  he  dallied 
by  her  side.  Almost  subconsciously  he  adopted  the 
tone  by  which  he  endeavored  to  enlist  the  interest  of 
the  opposite  sex:  he  repeated  in  a  perfunctory  man 
ner  the  stereotyped  remarks  appropriate  for  such 
occasions. 

She  listened  intently,  with  sudden,  little  glances 
from  a  momentarily  lifted  gaze.  He  grew  impa 
tient  at  the  absence  of  the  flattering  responses  to 
which  he  was  largely  accustomed.  And,  dropping 
abruptly  his  artificial  courtesy,  he  maintained  a  sul 
len  silence,  quickened  his  stride.  He  drew  some 
satisfaction  from  the  observation  that  his  reticence 
hurt  her.  Her  hands  caught  and  strained  together; 
she  looked  at  him  with  a  longer,  questioning  gaze. 

[95] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you/'  she  said  finally,  with  pal 
pable  difficulty,  "how  sorry  I  am  about  .  .  .  about 
things ;  your  home,  and — and  I  heard  of  the  stage, 
too.  It  was  a  shame,  you  drove  beautifully,  and 
took  such  care  of  the  passengers." 

"It  was  that  care  cost  me  the  place,"  he  answered 
with  brutal  directness;  "old  Simmons  did  it;  him 
and  his  precious  Buckley." 

She  stopped  with  an  expression  of  instant,  deep 
concern.  "Oh  I  I  am  so  sorry  .  .  .,  then  it  was 
my  fault.  But  it's  horrid  that  they  should  have 
done  that;  that  they  should  be  able;  it  is  all 
wrong — " 

"Right  nor  wrong  don't  make  any  figure  I've  ever 
discovered,"  he  retorted;  "Valentine  Simmons  has 
the  power,  he's  got  the  money.  That's  it — money's 
the  right  of  things ;  it  took  my  house  away  from  me, 
like  it's  taken  away  so  many  houses,  so  many  farms, 
in  Greenstream — " 

"But,"  she  objected  timidly,  "didn't  they  owe 
Mr.  Simmons  for  things?  You  see,  people  borrow, 
borrow,  borrow,  and  never  pay  back.  My  father," 
she  proceeded  with  more  confusion,  "has  lost  lots  of 
money  in  that  way." 

"I  can  tell  you  all  about  that,"  he  informed  her 
bitterly,  proceeding  to  mimic  Simmons'  dry,  cordial 
tones,  "  'Take  the  goods  right  along  with  you,  pay 
when  you  like,  no  hurry  between  old  friends.' 

[96] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

Then,  when  Zebener  Hull's  corn  failed,  'I'll  trou 
ble  you  for  that  amount,'  the  skinflint  says,  and  sells 
Zebener  out.  And  what  your  father's  lost,"  he 
added  more  directly  still,  "wouldn't  take  you  on 
the  stage  to  Stenton.  Your  father  and  Simmons 
have  got  about  everything  worth  getting  in  the 
county;  they've  got  the  money,  they've  got  the  land, 
(they've  got  the  men  right  in  their  iron  safes.  Right 
;and  wrong,"  he  sneered,  "it's  money — " 

"Oh!  please,"  she  begged,  "please  don't  be  so  un- 
! happy,  so  hard.  Life  isn't  as  dreadful  as  that." 

"It's  worse,"  he  declared  somberly.  They  turned 
by  Simmons'  store,  but  continued  in  the  opposite  di 
rection  from  the  one-time  Makimmon  dwelling. 
They  passed  a  hedge  of  roses;  the  perfume  hung 
heavy-sweet,  poignant ;  there  was  apparently  no  sky, 
no  earth,  only  a  close,  purple  envelopment,  immi 
nent,  palpable,  lying  languidly,  unstirring,  in  a 
space  without  form  or  limit  and  of  one  color. 

Lettice  walked  silently  by  his  side ;  he  could  hear 
her  breathing,  irregular,  quick.  She  was  very  close 
to  him,  then  moved  suddenly,  consciously,  away; 
but,  almost  immediately,  she  drifted  back,  brushing 
his  shoulder;  it  seemed  that  she  returned  inevitably, 
blindly;  in  the  gloom  her  gown  fluttered  like  the 
soft,  white  wings  of  a  moth  against  him. 

"It's  worse,"  he  repeated,  his  voice  loud  and 
harsh,  like  a  discordant  bell  clashing  in  the  soste- 

[97] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

nuto  passage  of  a  symphony;  "but  it's  all  one  to  me 
— there's  nothing  else  they  can  take;  I'm  free,  free 
to  sleep  or  wake,  to  be  drunk  when  I  like  with  no 
responsibility  to  Simmons  or  any  one  else — " 

Her  breathing  increasingly  grew  labored,  op 
pressed  ;  a  little  sob  escaped,  softly  miserable.  She 
was  crying.  He  was  completely  callous,  indiffer 
ent.  They  stood  before  the  dark,  porchless  fagade 
of  her  home. 

"I  thought  life  was  so  happy,"  she  articulated, 
facing  him;  "but  now  it  hurts  me  ...  here;"  he 
saw  her  press  her  hand  against  the  swelling,  tender 
line  of  her  breast.  His  theatrical  self-consciousness 
bowed  him  over  the  other  hand,  pressing  upon  it  a 
half-calculated  kiss.  She  stood  motionless;  he  felt 
rather  than  saw  the  intensity  of  her  gaze.  "I  wish 
I  could  mend  the  hurt,"  he  began,  appropriately, 
professionally. 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  figure  emerging  from 
the  obscurity  of  the  house.  Pompey  Hollidew 
peered  at  them  from  the  low,  stone  lintel.  "Letty," 
he  pronounced,  in  a  voice  at  once  whining  and  truc 
ulent;  "who? — oh!  that  Makimmon.  .  .  .  Letty, 
come  in  the  house."  He  caught  her  arm  and 
dragged  her  incontinently  toward  the  door. 
".  .  .  rascal,"  Gordon  heard  him  mutter,  "spend 
thrift.  If  you  ever  walk  again  with  Gordon  Ma 
kimmon,"  the  old  man,  through  his  daughter,  ad- 

[98] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

dressed  the  other,  "don't  walk  back  here,  don't  come 
home.  Not  a  dollar  of  mine  shall  fall  through  the 
pockets  of  that  shiftless  breed." 


[99] 


XX 

CLARE'S  funeral  deducted  a  further  sum 
from  the  amount  Gordon  had  received  for 
the  sale  of  his  home,  but  he  had  left  still 
nine  hundred  and  odd  dollars.  He  revolved  in  his 
mind  the  disposition  of  this  sum,  once  more  sitting 
with  chair  tilted  back  against  the  dingy  wooden  home 
of  the  Greenstream  Bugle;  he  rehearsed  its  possibili 
ties  for  frugality,  for  independence,  as  a  reserve 
...  or  for  pleasure.  It  was  the  hottest  hour  of  the 
day;  the  prospect  before  him,  the  uneven  street,  the 
houses  beyond,  were  coated  with  dust,  gilded  by  the 
refulgent  sun.  No  one  stirred;  a  red  cow  that  had 
been  cropping  the  grass  in  the  broad,  shallow  gut 
ter  opposite  sank  down  in  the  meager  shadow  of 
a  chance  pear  tree;  even  the  children  were  absent, 
the  piercing,  staccato  cries  of  their  games  unheard. 
To  Gordon  Makimmon  Greenstream  suddenly  ap 
peared  insufferably  dull,  empty;  the  thought  of 
monotonous,  identical  days  spun  thinly  out,  the 
nine  hundred  dollars  extended  to  its  greatest  length, 
in  that  banal  setting,  suddenly  grew  unbearable. 
.  .  .  There  was  no  life  in  Greenstream.  .  .  . 

[100] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOtJ 

The  following  morning  found  him  on  the  front 
:seat  of  the  Stenton  stage,  sharing  with  the  driver 
not  his  customary  cigarettes  but  more  portentous 
cigars  from  an  ample  pocketful.  "Greenstream's 
dead,"  he  pronounced;  "I'm  going  after  some 
life." 

Late  that  night  he  leaned  across  the  sloppy  bar 
of  an  inferior  saloon  in  Stenton,  and,  with  an  uncer 
tain  wave  of  his  hand,  arrested  the  barkeeper's  at 
tention.  "I'm  here,"  he  articulated  thickly,  "to  see 
life,  understand!  And  I  can  see.it  too — money's 
power."  The  other  regarded  him  with  a  brief, 
mechanical  interest,  a  platitude  shot  suavely  from 
hard,  tobacco-stained  lips. 

Later  still:  "I'm  here  to  see  life,"  he  told  a 
woman  with  a  chalky  countenance,  a  countenance 
without  any  expression  of  the  consciousness  of  the 
sound  of  his  voice,  a  vague  form  lost  in  loose  drap 
eries.  "Life,"  he  emphasized  above  the  continu 
ous,  macabre  rattle  of  a  piano. 

In  a  breathless,  hot  dawn  pouring  redly  into  the 
grey  city  street,  he  swayed  like  a  pendulum  on  the 
steaming  pavement.  His  side  was  smeared,  caked, 
with  unnamable  filth,  refuse;  a  tremulous  hand 
gripped  feverishly  the  shoulder  of  a  policeman  who 
had  roused  him  from  a  constrained  stupor  in  a  casual 
angle.  "I  wan'  to  see  life,"  he  mumbled  dully,  "I 
got  power  .  .  .  money."  He  fumbled  through  his 

[101] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 
pockets  in  search  of  the  proof  of  his  assertion.     In 
vain — all  that  was  left  of  the  nine  hundred  and  sixty 
dollars  was  some  loose  silver. 


[102] 


XXI 

AGAIN  sober,  without  the  resources  of  the 
citybred  parasite,  and  without  money,  his 
instinct,  his  longing,  drew  him  irresistibly 
into  the  open;  his  heredity  forced  him  toward  the 
mountains,  into  familiar  paths,  valleys,  heights. 

He  avoided  the  stage  road,  and  progressed  toward 
Greenstream  by  tangled  trails,  rocky  ascents,  sharp 
declines.  By  late  day  he  had  penetrated  to  the  heart 
of  the  upland  region.  He  stood  gazing  down  upon 
the  undulating,  verdant  hills,  over  which  he  could 
trace  the  course  of  a  thunder  gust.  The  storm 
moved  swiftly,  in  a  compact,  circular  shadow  on  the 
sunny  slope;  he  could  distinguish  the  sudden  twist 
ing  of  limbs,  the  path  of  torn  leaves,  broken 
branches,  left  by  the  lash  of  the  wind  and  rain.  The 
livid,  sinister  spot  on  the  placid  greenery  drew 
nearer;  he  could  now  hear  the  continuous  rumble  of 
thunder,  see  the  stabbing,  purplish  flashes  of  light 
ning.  The  edge  of  the  storm  swept  darkly  over  the 
spot  where  he  was  standing;  he  was  soaked  by  a 
momentary  assault  of  rain  driving  greyly  out  of  a 
passing,  profound  gloom.  Then  the  cloud  van- 

[103] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

ished,  leaving  the  countryside  sparkling  and  serene 
under  a  stainless  evening  sky. 

The  water  dripped  down  his  back,  swashed  in  his 
shoes ;  he  was,  in  his  lowered  vitality,  supremely  un 
comfortable.  The  way  was  slippery  with  mud;  wet 
leaves  bathed  his  face  in  sudden,  chill  showers,  clung 
to  his  hands.  He  fell. 

When  he  arrived  at  the  rim  of  Greenstream  night 
had  hidden  that  familiar,  welcome  vista.  The 
lights  of  the  houses  shone  pale  yellow  below.  A 
new  reluctance  to  enter  this  place  of  home  pos 
sessed  him,  a  shame  born  of  his  denuded  pockets, 
his  bedraggled  exterior.  He  descended,  but  turned 
to  the  left,  finding  a  rude  road  which  skirted  the 
base  of  the  eastern  range.  He  was  following  no 
definite  plan,  moving  slowly,  without  objective;  but 
a  window  glimmering  in  a  square  of  orange  light 
against  the  night  brought  him  to  a  halt.  It  marked, 
he  knew,  the  dwelling  of  the  Jesuit  priest,  Merlier. 
In  a  sudden  impulse  he  advanced  over  a  short  path, 
and  fumbling,  found  the  door,  where  he  knocked. 
A  chair  scraped  within  and  the  door  swung  open. 
The  form  of  the  priest  was  dark  against  the  lighted 
interior  which  absorbed  them. 


[104] 


XXII 

THE  room  was  singularly  bare:  a  tin  lamp 
with  a  green  glass  shade,  on  an  uncovered 
deal  table,  illuminated  an  open  book,  wood 
chairs  with  roughly  split,  hickory  backs,  a  couch 
with  no  covering  over  its  wire  springs  and  iron 
frame;  there  was  no  carpet  on  the  floor  of  loosely 
grooved  boards,  no  decorations  on  the  plastered 
walls  save  a  dark  engraving  of  a  man  in  intricate 
armor,  with  a  face  as  passionate,  as  keen,  as  re 
lentless,  as  a  hawk's,  labelled,  "Loyola." 

Merlier  silently  indicated  a  chair,  but  he  re 
mained  standing  with  his  gaze  lowered  upon  the 
floor.  He  was  a  burly  man,  with  a  heavy  counte 
nance  impassive  as  an  oriental's,  out  of  which, 
startling  in  its  unexpected  rapidity,  a  glance  flashed 
and  stabbed  as  steely  as  Loyola's  sword.  His 
hands  were  clasped  before  him;  they  were,  in  that 
environment,  strangely  white,  and  covered  with  the 
scars  of  what,  patently,  were  unaccustomed  employ 
ments. 

"It  feels  good  inside,"  Gordon  observed  tritely. 
He  noted  uneasily  the  muddy  tracks  his  shoes  had 

[105] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

printed  upon  the  otherwise  spotless  board  floor, 
"I  got  caught  in  a  gust  on  the  mountain,"  he  ex 
plained  awkwardly,  in  a  constraint  which  deepened 
with  the  other's  continued  silence;  "I  ought  to  have 
cleaned  up  before  I  came  in  ...  it's  terrible  dark 
out."  He  rose,  tentatively,  but  the  priest  waved 
him  back  into  the  chair.  Opening  a  door  opposite 
the  one  by  which  Gordon  had  entered,  and  which 
obviously  gave  upon  an  outer  shed,  Merlier  pro 
cured  a  roughly  made  mop;  and,  returning,  he  oblit 
erated  all  traces  of  the  mud.  Suddenly,  to  Gordon's 
dismay,  his  supreme  discomfort,  he  stooped  to  a 
knee,  and  began  to  remove  the  former's  shoes. 

"Hey!"  Gordon  protested;  "don't  do  that;  I  can 
tend  to  my  own  feet."  He  was  prepared  to  kick  out, 
but  he  recognized  that  a  struggle  could  only  make 
the  situation  insufferable,  and  he  submitted  in  an 
acute,  writhing  misery  to  the  ministrations.  The 
priest  rose  with  Gordon's  shoes  and  placed  them, 
together  with  the  mop,  outside  the  door.  He  then 
brought  from  an  inner  room  an  immaculate,  white 
cambric  shirt,  a  pair  of  trousers,  old  but  carefully 
ironed,  and  knitted,  grey  worsted  slippers. 

"If  you  will  change,"  he  said  in  a  low,  imper 
sonal  voice,  "I  will  see  what  there  is  for  you  to  eat." 
He  left  the  room,  and  Gordon  gratefully  shifted  into 
the  fresh,  dry  clothes.  The  trousers  were  far  too 
large;  they  belonged,  he  recognized,  to  the  priest, 

[106] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

but  he  belted  them  into  baggy  folds.  The  other  ap 
peared  shortly  with  a  wooden  tray  bearing  a  platter 
of  cooked,  yellow  beans,  a  part  loaf  of  coarse  bread, 
raw  eggs  and  a  pitcher  of  milk.  "I  thought,"  he 
explained,  "you  would  wish  something  immediately; 
there  is  no  fire;  Bartamon  is  out."  The  latter,  Gor 
don  knew,  was  a  sharp-witted  old  man  who  had 
made  a  precarious  living  in  the  local  fields  and 
woodsheds  until  the  priest  had  taken  him  as  a  gen 
eral  helper.  "There  are  neither  coffee  nor  tea  in 
the  house,"  Merlier  stated  further. 

He  closed  the  book,  moved  the  lamp  to  the  end 
of  the  table,  and  stood  with  his  countenance  lowered, 
his  folded  hands  immovable  as  stone,  while  Gordon 
Makimmon  consumed  the  cold  food.  Once  the 
priest  replenished  the  other's  glass  with  milk. 

If  there  had  been  a  gleam  of  fraternal  feeling, 
the  slightest  indication  of  generous  impulse,  a  mere 
accent  of  hospitality,  in  the  priest's  actions,  Gordon, 
accepting  them  in  such  spirit,  might  have  been  at 
ease.  But  not  the  faintest  spark  of  interest,  of  curi 
osity,  the  most  perfunctory  communion  of  sympathy, 
was  evident  on  Merlier's  immobile  countenance ;  his 
movements  were  machine-like,  he  seemed  infinitely 
removed  from  his  charitable  act,  infinitely  cold. 

Gordon's  discomfort  burned  into  a  species  of  il 
logical,  resentful  anger.  He  cursed  the  priest  under 
his  breath,  choked  on  the  food;  he  was  heartily 

[107] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

sorry  that  he  had  obeyed  the  fleeting  impulse  to  enter. 
But  even  the  anger  expired  before  Merlier's  impas 
sivity — he  must  as  well  curse  a  figure  carved  from 
granite,  cast  in  lead.  He  grew,  in  turn,  uneasy  at 
the  other's  supernatural  detachment;  it  chilled  his 
blood  like  the  grip  of  an  unexpected,  icy  hand,  like 
the  imminence  of  inevitable  death.  The  priest  re 
sembled  a  dead  man,  a  dead  man  who  had  remained 
quick  in  the  mere  physical  operations  of  the  body, 
while  all  the  machinery  of  his  thoughts,  his  feelings, 
lay  motionless  and  cold  within. 

Gordon  found  relief  in  a  customary  cigarette  when 
the  uncomfortable  repast  was  finished.  The  priest 
removed  the  dishes,  and  reappeared  with  bed  linen, 
with  which  he  proceeded  to  convert  the  bare  couch 
into  a  provision  for  sleeping.  Then  he  returned 
the  lamp  to  the  center  of  the  table,  opened  the  book 
and  seated  with  his  back  squarely  toward  the  room, 
addressed  himself  to  the  pages. 

Gordon  Makimmon's  head  throbbed,  suddenly 
paining  him — it  was  as  though  sharp,  malicious  fin 
gers  were  compressing  the  spine  at  the  base  of  his 
brain.  That,  and  the  profound  weariness  which 
swept  over  him,  were  disconcerting;  he  was  so  sel 
dom  ill,  so  rarely  tired,  that  those  unwelcome  symp 
toms  bore  an  aggravated  menace;  it  was  the  slight, 
premonitory  rusting,  the  corrosion  of  time,  upon  the 
iron  of  his  manhood. 

[108] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

In  an  instinctive  need  for  human  support,  the  re 
assurance  of  the  comprehension  of  his  kind,  he  di 
rected  an  observation  at  the  broad,  squat,  somber 
back.  "I  might  have  been  drunk  a  month,"  he 
asserted,  "by  the  way  I  feel."  The  priest  paused 
in  his  reading,  inserted  a  finger  in  the  page,  and  half 
turned.  Gordon  could  see  the  full,  smooth  cheek, 
the  drooping  gaze,  against  the  green  radiance  of  the 
lamp. 

"If  you  will  drink,"  Merlier  said  in  a  bitter,  re 
pressed  voice,  "if  you  will  indulge  the  flesh,  don't 
whimper  at  the  price."  He  made  a  gesture,  indi 
cating  the  bed,  then  returned  to  his  reading. 

"The  man  doesn't  live  who's  heard  me  whimper," 
Gordon  began  loudly;  but  his  angry  protest  trailed 
into  silence.  There  was  no  comfort,  no  redress,  to 
be  obtained  from  that  absorbed,  ungainly  figure. 
He  slipped  out  of  the  baggy  trousers,  the  worsted 
slippers,  and,  extending  himself  on  the  couch,  fell 
heavily  asleep. 


[109] 


XXIII 

WHEN  he  woke  the  room  was  bright  with 
narrow  strips  of  sun,  already  too  high 
to  shine  broadly  through  the  doors  and 
windows.  His  clothes,  dry  and  comparatively 
clean,  reposed  on  a  chair  at  his  side,  and,  washing 
in  the  basin  which  he  found  outside  the  door,  he  has 
tily  dressed.  He  looked,  tentatively,  for  the  priest, 
but  found  only  his  aged  helper  in  the  roughly- 
cleared  space  at  the  back  of  the  house. 

Bartamon  was  a  small  man,  with  a  skull-like 
head,  to  the  hollows  of  which,  the  bony  projections, 
dark  skin  clung  dryly;  his  eyes  were  mere  dimming 
glints  of  watery  consciousness;  and  from  the  sleeves 
of  a  faded  blue  shirt,  the  folds  of  formless,  canvas 
trousers,  knotted,  blackish  hands,  grotesque  feet,  ap 
peared  to  hang  jerking  on  wires. 

"Where's  the  Father?"  Gordon  inquired. 

The  other  rested  from  the  laborious  sawing  of  a 
log,  blinking  and  tremulous  in  the  hard  brilliancy  of 
midday.  "Beyond,"  he  answered  vaguely,  waving 
up  the  valley;  "Sim  Caley's  wife  sent  for  him  from 
Hollidew's  farm.  Sim  or  his  wife  think  they're 

[no] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

going  to  die  two  or  three  times  the  year,  and  bother 
the  Father.  .  .  .  But  I  wouldn't  wonder  they  would, 
and  them  working  for  Hollidew,  dawn,  day  and 
dark,  with  never  a  proper  skinful  of  food,  only  this 
and  that,  maybe,  chick'ry  and  fat  pork  and  moldy 
ends  of  nothing." 

He  filled  the  blackened  ruin  of  a  pipe,  shaking  in 
his  palsied  fingers,  clasped  it  in  mumbling,  toothless 
gums:  he  was  so  sere,  so  juiceless,  that  the  smoke 
trailing  from  his  sunken  lips  might  well  have  been 
the  spontaneous  conflagration  of  his  desiccated  inte 
rior. 

"Hollidew's  a  terrible  man  for  money,"  he  con 
tinued,  "it  hurts  him  like  a  cut  with  a  hick'ry  to 
see  a  dollar  go.  They  say  he  won't  hear  tell  of 
quitting  his  fortune  for  purgatory,  no,  nor  for 
heaven  neither.  He  can't  get  him  to  make  a  will, 
the  lawyer  can't.  He  was  telling  the  Father  the 
other  day,  sitting  right  in  the  house  there,  Tompey 
Hollidew,'  he  says,  'won't  even  talk  will.  .  .  .' 
He'd  like  to  take  it  all  with  him  to  the  devil,  Pompey 
would."  He  turned  with  a  sigh  to  the  log.  A  cross 
cut  saw,  with  a  handle  at  either  end,  lay  upon  the 
ground;  and  Gordon,  grasping  the  far  handle, 
helped  him  to  drag  the  slim,  glittering  steel  through 
the  powdering  fiber  of  the  wood. 

As  he  worked  mechanically  Gordon's  thoughts  re 
turned  to  the  past,  the  past  which  had  collapsed 

[mi 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

so  utterly,  so  disastrously,  so  swiftly  upon  his  com 
placency,  robbing  him  of  his  sustenance,  of  Clare,  of 
his  home.  The  complaining  voice  of  the  old  man 
finally  pierced  his  abstraction.  "If  you  are  going 
to  ride/'  Bartamon  complained,  "don't  drag  your 
feet." 

The  two  men  consumed  a  formless,  ample  meal, 
after  which  Gordon  still  waited  negligently  for  the 
priest.  The  sun  sank  toward  the  western  range ;  the 
late  afternoon  grew  as  hushed,  as  rich  in  color,  in 
vert  shadows,  ultramarine,  and  amber,  as  heavy  in 
foliage  bathed  in  aureate  light,  as  the  nave  of  a 
cathedral  under  stained  glass. 

In  a  corner  of  the  shed  Gordon  found  a  fishing 
rod  of  split  bamboo,  sprung  with  time  and  neglect, 
the  wrappings  hanging  and  effectually  loose.  A 
small  brass  reel  was  fastened  to  the  butt,  holding 
an  amount  of  line.  He  balanced  the  rod  in  his 
grasp,  discovering  it  to  be  the  property  of  the  old 
man. 

"What'll  you  take  for  it?"  he  demanded.  His 
store  of  money  had  been  reduced  to  a  precarious  sum 
of  silver;  but  the  longing  had  seized  him  to  fish  in 
the  open,  to  follow  a  stream  into  the  tranquil  dusk. 

"I  got  some  flies  too."  The  other  resurrected  a 
cigar  box,  which  held  some  feathered  hooks  attached 
to  doubtful  guts.  "They  are  dried  out,"  Gordon 
pronounced,  testing  them;  "what  will  you  take  for 

[112] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

the  whole  worthless  lot?"  Bartamon  demurred: 
the  rod  had  been  a  good  rod,  it  had  been  given  to 
him  in  the  past  by  a  mayor,  or  had  it  been  a  senator? 
It  was  not  like  common  rods,  made  of  six  strips  of 
bamboo,  but  of  eight,  the  line  was  silk.  ...  He 
would  take  sixty  cents. 

Delaying  his  expression  of  gratitude  to  the  priest 
— he  could  stop  on  his  return  with  trout — Gordon 
was  soon  tramping  over  the  soft,  dusty  road  to  where 
he  bordered  a  stream  skirting  the  eastern  range. 
A  shelf  of  pasturage  ran,  deep  blue-green  sod, 
against  the  rocky  wall;  to  the  left,  through  scattered 
trees,  the  valley  was  visible;  on  the  right  the  range 
mounted  precipitant,  verdant,  to  its  far  crown.  The 
stream,  now  torn  to  white  foam  on  a  rocky  descent, 
now  swept  with  a  glassy  rush  between  level,  green 
banks,  now  moved  slowly  in  a  deep-shaded  pool, 
where  gleaming  bubbles  held  filmed  sliding  replicas 
of  the  banks,  the  trees,  the  sky. 

The  sun,  growing  less  a  source  of  light  than  a 
brilliant  circle  of  carmine,  almost  touched  the  west 
ern  range ;  the  shadow  troop,  swept  down  the  slope 
and  lengthened  across  the  valley;  cut  by  the  trunks 
of  trees  the  light  fell  in  dusty  gold  bars  across  the 
water.  Gordon  drew  the  line  through  the  dipping 
tip,  knotting  on  three  of  the  flies.  Then  he  quietly 
followed  the  stream  to  where  it  fell  into  a  circular, 
stone-bound  basin.  He  made  his  cast  with  a  quick 

[113] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

turn  of  the  wrist,  skilfully  avoiding  the  high  under 
brush,  the  overhanging  limbs.  The  flies  swung  out 
and  dropped  softly  on  the  water.  On  the  second 
cast  he  caught  a  trout — a  silvery,  gleaming  shape 
flecked  with  vermilion  and  black,  shaded  with  mauve 
and  emerald  and  maroon. 

In  a  shallow  reach  he  waded,  forgetful  of  his 
clothes.  He  caught  another  trout,  another  and  an 
other,  stringing  them  on  a  green  withe.  He  cast 
indef atigably,  but  with  the  greatest  possible  economy 
of  effort;  his  progress  was  all  but  soundless;  he 
slipped  down  stream  like  a  thing  of  the  woods,  fish 
ing  with  delicate  art,  with  ardor,  with  ingenuity,  and 
with  continual  success. 

The  sun  disappeared  in  a  primrose  void  behind 
the  darkening  mountains;  the  hush  deepened  upon 
the  valley,  a  hush  in  which  the  voice  of  the  stream 
was  audible,  cool — a  sound  immemorially  old,  lin 
gering  from  the  timeless  past  through  vast,  dim 
changes,  cataclysms,  carrying  the  melancholy,  elo 
quent,  incomprehensible  plaint  of  primitive  nature. 

Gordon  was  absorbed,  content;  the  quiet,  the 
magic  veil  of  oblivion,  of  the  woods,  of  the  immo 
bile  mountains,  enveloped  and  soothed  him,  released 
his  heart  from  its  oppression,  banished  the  fever,  the 
struggle,  from  his  brain.  The  barrier  against 
which  he  still  fished  was  mauve,  the  water  black;  the 
moon  appeared  buoyantly,  like  a  rosy  bubble  blown 

[114] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

upon  a  curtain  of  old  blue  velvet.  He  cast  once 
more,  and  met  his  last  strike,  a  heavy  jar  that  broke 
the  weakened  line,  in  a  broad,  still  expanse  where 
white  moths  fluttered  above  the  water  in  a  cold,  stag 
nant  gloom.  He  saw  the  rotting  wall  of  a  primi 
tive  dam,  the  crumbling,  fallen  sides  of  a  rude  mill. 
Night  fell  augustly.  The  whippoorwills  cried  faint 
and  distant. 

He  sat  on  a  log,  draining  his  shoes,  pressing  the 
water  from  his  trousers,  and  smoked  while  the  light 
of  the  moon  brightened  into  a  silvery  radiance  in 
which  objects,  trees,  were  greyly  visible;  reaches 
sank  into  soft  obscurity.  He  recognized  his  position 
from  the  ruined  mill — he  was  on  the  edge  of  that 
farm  of  Pompey  Hollidew's  of  which  Bartamon  had 
spoken.  Hollidew,  he  knew,  seldom  visited  his  out 
lying  acres,  then  only  in  the  collection  of  rents  or 
profits — they  lay  too  far  from  his  iron  chest,  from 
the  communication  of  the  Stenton  banks.  Gordon 
knew  Sim  Caley,  and,  suddenly,  he  decided  to  visit 
him;  the  trout  would  afford  the  Caleys  and  himself 
an  ample  repast. 

He  crossed  the  road,  made  his  way  through  a  fra 
grant  tangle  of  field  grass,  over  shorn  and  orderly 
acres  of  grazing.  The  moon  rose  higher,  grew 
brighter;  the  vistas  were  clear,  unreal,  the  shadows 
like  spilled  ink.  The  house  toward  which  he  moved 
stood  sharply  defined,  and  enclosed  by  a  fence,  flow- 

[1151 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

ers,  from  the  farm.  As  he  approached  he  saw  that 
no  lights  were  visible,  but  a  blur  of  white  moved  in 
the  shadow  of  the  portico.  He  decided  that  it  was 
Sim  Caley's  wife;  and,  opening  the  gate,  advanced 
with  a  query  for  Mrs.  Caley's  health  forming  on  his 
lips. 

But  it  was  Lettice  Hollidew. 


[116] 


XXIV 

SHE  retreated,  as  he  advanced,  within  the 
deeper  obscurity  of  an  opened  door  but  he  had 
seen,  in  the  shimmering,  elusive  light,  her 
features,  gathered  the  unmistakable,  intangible  im 
pression  of  her  person. 

"It's  me,  Gordon  Makimmon,"  he  said.  He 
paused  by  the  step,  on  which  he  laid  the  trout,  shin 
ing  with  sudden,  liquid  gleams  of  silver  in  the  moon 
light. 

"Oh ! "  she  exclaimed  in  a  low  voice ;  "oh ! "  She 
moved  forward,  materializing,  out  of  the  dark,  into 
a  figure  of  white  youth.  Her  face  was  pale,  there 
were  white  ruffles  on  her  neck,  on  her  arms,  her  skirt 
clung  simply,  whitely,  about  her  knees  and  ankles. 

"I  stopped  to  see  Sim,"  he  explained  further,  "and 
took  you  for  Mrs.  Caley.  I  reckoned  I'd  bring 
them  some  trout:  I  didn't  know  your  father  was 
here." 

"Won't  you  sit  down.  Mrs.  Caley  is  sick,  and 
Sim's  on  the  mountain  with  the  cattle.  Father  isn't 
here." 

He  mounted  to  the  portico,  mentally  formulating 
a  way  of  speedy  escape;  he  thought,  everywhere  he 

[117] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

turned  Lettice  Hollidew  stood  with  her  tiresome 
smile.  "I  come  out  here  every  summer,"  she  volun 
teered,  sinking  upon  a  step,  "and  spend  two  weeks. 
I  was  born  here  you  see,  and/'  she  added  in  a  stiller 
voice,  "my  mother  died  here.  Father  Merlier  calls 
it  my  yearly  retreat." 

"I'd  be  pleased  if  you'd  take  the  fish,"  he  re 
marked;  "I  guess  I'd  better  be  moving — -I've  got  to 
see  the  priest." 

"Why,  you  haven't  stopped  a  minute,"  she  pro 
tested,  "not  long  enough  to  smoke  one  of  your  lit 
tle  cigarettes.  Visitors  are  too  scarce  here  to  let 
them  go  off  like  that." 

At  the  implied  suggestion  he  half-mechanically 
rolled  a  cigarette.  The  chair  he  found  was  com 
fortable;  he  was  very  weary.  He  sat  smoking  and 
indifferently  studying  Lettice  Hollidew.  She  was, 
to-night,  prettier  than  he  had  remembered  her.  She 
was  telling  him,  in  a  voice  that  rippled  cool  and  low 
like  the  stream,  of  Mrs.  Caley's  indisposition.  Her 
face,  now  turned  toward  the  fields,  was  dipped  in  the 
dreaming  radiance;  now  it  was  blurred,  vaguely  ap 
pealing,  disturbing.  Her  soft  youth  was  creamy, 
distilling  an  essence,  a  fragrance,  like  a  flower ;  it  was 
one  with  the  immaculate  flood  of  light  bathing  the 
world  in  virginal  beauty. 

A  new  interest  stirred  within  him,  a  satisfaction 
grew  from  her  palpable  liking  for  him,  and  was  re- 

[118] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

fleeted  in  the  warmer  tones  of  his  replies;  a  new 
pain  ordered  his  comments.  The  situation,  too, 
appealed  to  him;  his  instinct  responded  to  the  ob 
vious  implications  of  the  position  in  the  exact  de 
gree  of  his  habit  of  mind.  The  familiar,  profes 
sional  gallantry  took  possession  of  him,  directing 
the  sensuality  to  which  he  abandoned  himself. 

He  moved  from  the  chair  to  the  step  by  her  side. 
Nearer  she  was  more  appealing  still;  a  lovely 
shadow  dwelt  at  the  base  of  her  throat;  the  simple 
dress  took  the  soft  curves  of  her  girlish  body,  stirred 
with  her  breathing.  Her  hands  lay  loosely  in  her 
lap,  and  the  impulse  seized  him  to  take  them  up,  but 
be  repressed  it  ...  for  the  moment. 

"I  saw  Buckley  Simmons,  yesterday,"  she  in 
formed  him,  "his  face  is  nearly  well.  He  wanted 
to  come  out  here,  but  I  wouldn't  let  him.  He  wants 
to  marry  me/'  she  continued  serenely;  "I  told  him 
I  didn't  think  I'd  every  marry.5> 

"But  you  will — some  lucky,  young  man." 

"I  don't  think  I  like  young  men,  that  is,"  she 
qualified  carefully,  "not  very  young.  I  like  men 
who  are  able  to  act  ever  so  quickly,  no  matter  what 
occurs,  and  they  must  be  terribly  brave.  I  like 
them  best  if  they  have  been  unfortunate;  something 
in  me  wants  to  make  up  to  them  for — for  any  loss," 
she  paused,  gazing  at  him  with  an  elevated  chin, 
serious  lips,  intent  eyes. 

[119] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

This,  he  told  himself  complacently,  was  but  a  de 
scription  of  himself,  as  pointed  as  she  dared  to 
make  it.  "A  man  who  had  had  trouble  couldn't 
do  better  than  tell  you  about  it,"  he  assured  her; 
"I  have  had  a  good  lot  of  trouble." 

"Well,  tell  me,"  she  moved  toward  him.          ^  . 

"Oh!  you  wouldn't  care  to  hear  about  mine.  I'm 
a  sort  of  nobody  at  present.  I  haven't  anything  in 
the  world — no  home,  nothing  in  the  whole  world. 
Even  the  little  saving  I  had  after  the  house  was  sold 
was — was  taken  from  me  by  sharpers." 

"Tell  me,"  she  repeated,  "more." 

"When  Valentine  Simmons  had  sold  my  place,  the 
place  my  grandfather  built,  I  had  about  a  thou 
sand  dollars  left,  and  I  thought  I  would  start  a  little 
business  with  it,  a  ...  a  gun  store, — I  like  guns, 
— here  in  Greenstream.  And  I'd  sharpen  scythes, 
put  sickles  into  condition,  you  know,  things  like 
that.  I  went  to  Stenton  with  my  capital  in  my 
pocket,  looking  for  some  stock  to  open  with,  and 
met  a  man  in  a  hotel  who  said  he  was  the  represen 
tative  of  the  Standard  Hardware  Company.  He 
could  let  me  have  everything  necessary,  he  said,  at  a 
half  of  what  others  would  charge.  We  had  din 
ner  together,  and  he  made  a  list  of  what  I  would  need 
— files  and  vises  and  parts  of  guns.  If  I  mailed  my 
cheque  immediately  I  could  get  the  half  off.  He 
had  cards,  catalogues,  references,  from  Richmond. 

[120] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

I  might  write  there,  but  I'd  lose  time  and  money. 

"None  of  the  Makimmons  have  been  good  busi 
ness  men;  we  are  not  distrustful.  I  sent  the  cheque 
.to  the  address  he  said,  made  out  to  him  for  the 
Standard  Hardware  Company,  so  that  he  would  get 
the  commission,  the  credit  of  the  sale."  He  drew 
a  deep  breath,  gazing  across  the  moonlit  fields. 
"The  Makimmons  are  not  distrustful,"  he  reiter 
ated;  "he  robbed  me  of  all  my  savings." 

His  lie  would  have  fared  badly  with  Pompey  Hol- 
lidew,  he  thought  grimly;  it  was  unconvincing, 
wordy;  he  was  conscious  that  his  assumed  emotion 
rang  thinly.  But  its  calculated  effect  was  instan 
taneous,  beyond  all  his  hopes,  his  plan. 

Lettice  leaned  close  to  him  with  a  sobbing  inspira 
tion  of  sympathy  and  pity.  "How  terrible!"  she 
cried  in  low  tones;  "you  were  so  noble — "  He 
breathed  heavily  once  more.  "What  a  wicked, 
wicked  man.  Couldn't  you  get  anything  back? 
did  it  all  go?" 

"All."  His  hand  fell  upon  hers,  and  neither  of 
them  appeared  to  notice  its  pressure.  Her  face  was 
close  to  his,  a  tear  gleamed  on  her  young,  moon- 
blanched  cheek.  A  sudden  impatience  seized  him 
at  her  credulity,  a  contempt  at  the  ease  with  which 
she  was  victimized;  the  effort  was  almost  without 
spice.  Still  his  grasp  tightened  upon  her.hand,  drew 
it  toward  him.  "In  Greenstream,"  he  continued, 

[121] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"men  don't  like  me,  they  are  afraid  of  me;  but  the 
women  make  me  unhappy — they  tell  me  their  trou 
bles;  I  don't  want  them  to,  I  keep  away  from  them." 

"I  understand  that,"  she  declared  eagerly,  "I 
would  tell  you  anything." 

"You  are  different;  I  want  you  to  tell  me  ... 
things.  But  the  things  I  want  to  hear  may  not 
come  to  you.  I  would  never  be  satisfied  with  a  lit 
tle.  The  Makimmons  are  all  that  way — everything 
or  nothing." 

She  gently  loosened  her  hand,  and  stood  up,  fac 
ing  him.  Her  countenance,  turned  to  the  light, 
shone  like  a  white  flame ;  it  was  tensely  aquiver  with 
passionate  earnestness,  lambent  with  the  flowering 
of  her  body,  of  dim  desire,  the  heritage  of  flesh.  She 
spoke  in  a  voice  that  startled  Gordon  by  its  new 
depth,  the  brave  thrill  of  its  undertone. 

"I  could  only  give  all,"  she  said.  "I  am  like  that 
too.  What  do  you  wish  me  to  tell  you?  What  can 
I  say  that  will  help  you?" 

"Ever  since  I  first  saw  you  going  to  the  Stenton 
school,"  he  hurried  on,  "I  have  thought  about  you. 
I  could  hardly  wait  for  the  Christmas  holidays,  to 
have  you  in  the  stage,  or  for  the  summer  when  you 
came  home.  Nobody  knows;  it  has  been  a  secret 
...  it  seemed  so  useless.  You  were  like  a  ...  a 
star,"  he  told  her. 

"How  could  I  know?"  she  asked;  "I  was  only  a 
[122] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

girl  until — until  Buckley  .  .  .  until  to-night,  now. 
But  I  can  never  be  that  again,  something  has  hap 
pened  ...  in  my  heart,  something  has  gone,  and 
come,"  her  voice  grew  shadowed,  wistful.  It  car 
ried  to  him,  in  an  intangible  manner,  a  fleet  warning, 
as  though  something  immense,  unguessed,  august, 
uttered  through  Lettice  Hollidew  the  whisper  of  a 
magnificent  and  terrible  menace.  He  felt  again  as 
he  had  felt  as  a  child  before  the  vast  mystery  of 
night.  An  impulse  seized  him  to  hurry  away 
from  the  portico,  from  the  youthful  figure  at  his  side; 
a  sudden,  illogical  fear  chilled  him.  But  he  sum 
moned  the  hardihood,  the  skepticism,  of  his  heart; 
he  defied — while  the  sinking  within  him  persisted — 
not  the  girl,  but  the  nameless  force  beyond,  above, 
about  them.  "You  are  like  a  star,"  he  repeated,  in 
forced  tones. 

He  rose  and  stood  before  her.  She  swayed  to 
ward  him  like  a  flower  bowed  by  the  wind.  He  put 
his  arms  around  her,  her  head  lay  back,  and  he 
kissed  the  smooth  fullness  of  her  throat.  He  kissed 
her  lips. 

The  eternal,  hapless  cry  of  the  whippoorwills 
throbbed  on  his  hearing.  The  moon  slipped  be 
hind  a  corner  of  the  house,  and  a  wave  of  darkness 
swept  over  them.  Lettice  began  to  tremble  violently, 
and  he  led  her  back  to  their  place  on  the  veranda's 
edge.  She  was  silent,  and  clung  to  him  with  a  re- 

[123] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

luctant  eagerness.  He  kissed  her  again  and  again, 
on  a  still  mouth,  but  soon  her  lips  answered  his  de 
sire.  It  grew  constantly  darker,  the  silvery  vistas 
shortened,  grew  blurred,  trees  merged  into  indis 
tinguishable  gloom. 

Lettice  murmured  a  shy,  unaccustomed  endear 
ment.  Gordon  was  stereotyped,  commonplace;  he 
was  certain  that  even  she  must  recognize  the  hollow- 
ness  of  his  protestations.  But  she  never  doubted 
him;  she  accepted  the  dull,  leaden  note  of  his  spu 
rious  passion  for  the  clear  ring  of  unalloyed  and 
fine  gold. 

Suddenly  and  unexpectedly  she  released  herself 
from  his  arms.  "Oh ! "  she  exclaimed,  in  conscience- 
stricken  tones,  "Mrs.  Caley's  medicine!  I — for 
got;  she  should  have  had  some  long  ago."  He 
tried  to  catch  her  once  more  in  his  embrace,  restrain 
her.  "It  would  be  better  not  to  wake  her  up,"  he 
protested,  "sleep's  what  sick  folks  need."  But  she 
continued  to  evade  him.  Mrs.  Caley  must  have  her 
medicine.  The  doctor  had  said  that  it  was  impor-  * 
tant.  "It's  my  duty,  Gordon,"  she  told  him,  "and 
you  would  want  me  to  do  that." 

He  stifled  with  difficulty  an  impatient  exclama 
tion.  "Then  will  you  come  back?"  he  queried.  He 
took  her  once  more  close  in  his  arms.  "Come 
back,"  he  whispered  hotly  in  her  ear. 

"But,  dear  Gordon,  it  is  so  late." 
[124] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"What  does  that  matter?  don't  you  love  me? 
You  said  you  were  the  sort  of  a  girl  to  give  all ;  and 
now,  because  it  is  a  little  late,  you  are  afraid.  What 
are  you  afraid  of?  Tell  me  that!  You  know  I 
love  you;  we  belong  to  each  other;  what  does  it 
matter  how  late  it  is?  Beside,  no  one  will  know, 
no  one  is  here  to  spy  on  us.  Come  back,  my  little 
girl  .  .  .  my  little  Lettice;  come  back  to  a  lonely 
man  with  nothing  else  in  the  world  but  you.  I'll 
come  in  with  you,  wait  inside.'' 

"No,"  she  sobbed,  "wait  .  .  .  here.  I  will  see 
.  .  .  the  medicine.  Wait  here  for  me,  I  will  come 
back.  It  doesn't  matter  how  late  it  is,  nothing  mat 
ters  .  .  .  trust  in  you.  Love  makes  everything 
good.  Only  you  love  me,  oh,  truly?" 

"Truly,"  he  reassured  her.  "Don't  be  long;  and, 
remember,  shut  Mrs.  Caley's  door." 

She  left  him  abruptly,  and,  standing  alone  in  the 
dark,  he  cursed  himself  for  a  fool  for  letting  her 
go — a  boy's  trick.  But  then  the  whole  affair  did 
not  desperately  engage  him.  He  sat  in  the  com 
fortable  chair,  and  lit  a  cigarette,  shielding  it  with 
his  hand  so  that  she  would  not  see  it,  recognize  in 
its  triviality  his  detachment.  A  wave  of  weariness 
swept  over  him;  the  night  was  like  a  blanket  on 
the  land.  Minutes  passed  without  her  return;  soon 
he  would  go  in  search  of  her ;  he  would  find  her  .  .  . 
in  the  dark  house,  .  .  .  He  shut  his  eyes  for  a  mo-' 

[1251 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

ment,  and  opened  them  with  an  effort.  The  whip- 
poorwills  never  for  a  moment  ceased  their  melan 
choly  calling;  they  seemed  to  draw  nearer  to  him; 
then  retreat,  far  away.  His  head  fell  forward  upon 
his  breast. 

Lettice  Hollidew!  little  fool;  but  what  was  that 
beyond  her,  blacker  than  night? 

He  stirred,  sat  up  sharply,  his  eyes  dazzled  by  a 
blaze  of  intolerable  brilliancy.  It  was  the  sun,  a 
full  two  hours  above  the  horizon.  He  had  slept 
through  the  night.  His  muscles  were  cramped,  his 
neck  ached  intolerably.  He  rose  with  a  painful  ef 
fort  and  something  fell  to  the  floor.  It  was  a  rose, 
wilted,  its  fragrance  fled.  He  realized  that  Lettice 
had  laid  it  on  his  knee,  last  night,  when  the  bud  had 
been  fresh.  He  had  slept  while  she  stood  above 
him,  while  the  rose  had  faded.  On  the  step  the  fish 
lay,  no  longer  brightly  colored,  in  a  dull,  stiff  heap. 
The  house  was  still;  through  the  open  door  the  sun 
fell  on  a  strip  of  rag  rug.  He  turned  and  hurried 
down  the  steps,  unlatched  the  gate,  and  almost  ran 
across  the  fields  to  the  cover  of  a  wood,  fleeing  from 
an  unsupportably  humiliating  vision. 


[1261 


XXV 

HE  made  his  way  to  where  Greenstream  vil 
lage  lay  somnolent  beneath  the  refulgent 
day.  The  chairs  before  the  office  of  the 
Bugle  were  unoccupied,  from  within  came  the  mo 
notonous,  sliding  rattle  of  the  small  footpress.  Gor 
don  sat  absently  revolving  the  possibilities  held  out 
by  the  near  future.  Hay,  he  knew  was  still  being 
made  in  the  valley,  but  the  prospect  of  long,  arduous 
days  in  the  open  fields,  in  the  hot,  dry  chaff  of  the 
sere  grass,  was  forbidding.  He  might  take  his  gun 
and  a  few  personal  necessities  and  disappear  into 
such  wild  as  yet  remained,  contracting  steadily  before 
the  inexorable,  smooth  advance  of  civilization.  He 
was  aware  that  he  could  manage  a  degree  of  comfort, 
adequate  food.  But  the  thoughtless  resiliency  of 
sheer  youth  had  deserted  him,  the  desire  for  mere, 
picturesque  adventure  had  fled  during  the  past,  com 
fortable  years.  He  dismissed  contemptuously  the 
possibility  of  clerking  in  a  local  store.  There  was 
that  still  in  the  Makimmon  blood  which  balked  at 
measuring  ribbands,  selling  calico  to  captious 
women. 

[127] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

The  large,  suave  figure  of  the  Universalist  min 
ister,  in  grey  alpaca  coat  and  black  trousers,  ap 
proached  leisurely  over  the  street,  and  stopped  be 
fore  Gordon.  The  minister  had  a  conspicuously 
well-fed  paunch,  his  smooth  face  expressed  placid 
self-approval,  his  tones  never  for  a  moment  lost  the 
unctuous  echo  of  the  pulpiteer. 

"You  have  not  worshipped  with  us  lately,"  he  ob 
served.  "Remiss,  remiss.  Our  services  have  been 
stirring — three  souls  redeemed  from  everlasting  tor 
ment  at  the  Wednesday  meeting,  two  adults  and  a 
child  sealed  to  Christ  on  Sunday." 

"I'll  drop  in,"  Gordon  told  him  pacifically. 

"A  casual  phrase  to  apply  to  the  Mansion  of  the 
Son,"  the  minister  observed,  "more  humility  would 
become  you.  .  .  .  God,  I  pray  Thee  that  Thy  fire 
descend  upon  this  unhappy  man  and  consume  ut 
terly  away  his  carnal  envelope.  What  are  you  do 
ing?"  he  demanded  abruptly  of  Gordon. 

"Nothing  particular  just  now." 

"There  are  some  small  occupations  about  the 
parsonage — a  board  or  so  loose  on  the  ice  house, 
a  small  field  of  provender  for  the  animal.  Let  us 
say  a  week's  employment  for  a  ready  man.  I  could 
pay  but  a  modest  stipend  .  .  .  but  the  privilege  of 
my  home,  the  close  communion  with  our  Maker. 
You  would  be  as  my  brother:  what  do  you  say?" 

Gordon  was  well  aware  of  the  probable  extent 
[128] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

of  the  "small  occupations,"  the  minister's  reputation 
for  exacting  monumental  labors  in  return  for  the 
"modest  stipend"  mentioned.  However,  the  pro 
posal  furnished  Gordon  with  a  solution  for  imme 
diate  difficulties ;  it  secured  him  a  bed  and  food,  an 
opportunity  for  the  maturing  of  further  plans. 

He  rose,  queried,  "Shall  I  go  right  along?" 

"Admirable,"  the  other  approved.  "My  be 
loved  helpmate  will  show  you  where  the  tools  are 
kept,  when  you  can  begin  immediately." 

Gordon  made  his  way  past  Simmons'  store  to  the 
plaster  bulk  of  the  Universalist  Church,  its  lawn 
shared  by  the  four-square,  shingled  roof  of  the  par 
sonage.  Back  of  both  structures  reached  a  small 
field  of  heavy  grass,  where  Gordon  labored  for  the 
remainder  of  the  day. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  an  aged,  gaunt  man  drove 
an  incongruous,  two  wheeled,  breaking  cart  into  the 
stable  yard  behind  the  parsonage.  After  hitching 
an  aged,  gaunt  white  horse,  he  approached  the  field's 
edge,  where  Gordon  was  harvesting.  It  was  the 
minister's  father-in-law,  himself  a  clergyman  for 
the  half  century  past,  a  half  century  that  stretched 
back  into  strenuous,  bygone  days  of  circuit  riding. 
His  flowing  hair  and  a  ragged  goatee  were  white, 
oddly  stained  and  dappled  with  lemon  yellow,  his 
skin  was  leather-like  from  years  of  exposure  to  the 
elements,  to  the  bitter  mountain  winters,  the  ruth- 

[129] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

less  suns  of  the  August  valleys.  He  was  as  sea 
soned,  as  tough,  as  choice  old  hickory,  and  had  pale, 
blue  eyes  in  which  the  flame  of  religious  fervor,  of 
incandescent  zeal,  were  scarcely  dimmed. 

A  long  supper  table  was  spread  in  a  room  where  a 
sideboard  supported  a  huge  silver-plated  pitcher 
swung  on  elaborately  engraved  supports,  a  dozen 
blue  glasses  traced  with  gold,  and  a  plate  that  pic 
tured  in  a  grey,  blurred  fashion  the  Last  Supper. 
The  gathering  ranged  variously  from  the  aged  cir 
cuit  rider  to  the  minister's  next  but  one  to  the  young 
est:  he  had  fourteen  children,  of  which  nine  were 
ravenously  present.  The  oldest  girl  at  the  table,  a 
possible  sixteen  years,  had  this  defiant  detachment 
under  her  immediate  charge,  acquitting  herself  not 
ably  by  a  constant  stream  of  sharp  negations  op 
posed  to  a  varied  clamor  of  proposals,  attempted  for 
ages  upon  the  heaped  plates,  sly  reprisals,  and  a 
sustained,  hysterical  note  which  threatened  at  any 
time,  and  in  any  youthful  individual,  to  burst  into 
angry  wails. 

Opposite  Gordon  Makimmon  sat  a  slight,  femi 
nine  figure,  whom  he  recognized  as  the  teacher  of  the 
past  season's  local  school.  She  had  a  pallid  face, 
which  she  rarely  raised,  compressed  lips,  and  hands 
which  attracted  Gordon  by  reason  of  their  white  deft 
ness,  the  precise  charm  of  their  pointed  fingers. 
During  a  seemingly  interminable  grace,  pronounced 

[130] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

in  a  rapid  sing-song  by  the  circuit  rider,  Gordon  saw 
her  flash  her  gaze  about  the  table,  the  room ;  and  its 
somber,  resentful  fire,  its  restrained  fury  of  impa 
tience,  of  disdain,  of  hatred,  coming  from  that  fra 
gile,  silent  shape,  startled  him. 

The  Universalist  minister  addressed  the  com 
pany  in  sonorous  periods,  which,  however,  did  not 
prevent  him  from  assimilating  a  prodigious  amount 
of  food.  Between  forkfuls  of  chicken  baked  in  mac 
aroni,  "I  rejoice  that  my  ministrations  are  accepta 
ble  to  Him,"  he  pronounced;  "three  souls  Wednes 
day  last,  two  adults  and  a  child  on  Sunday." 

The  aged  evangelist  could  scarcely  contain  his 
contempt  at  this  meager  tally.  "What  would  you 
say,  Augustus,"  he  demanded  in  eager,  tremulous 
triumph,  "to  two  hundred  lost  souls  roaring  up  to 
the  altar,  casting  off  their  wickedness  like  snakes 
shed  their  skins?  Hey?  Hey?  What  would  you 
say  to  two  hundred  dipped  in  the  blood  of  the  lamb 
and  emerging  white  as  the  Dove?  Souls  ain't  what 
they  were,"  he  muttered  pessimistically;  "it  used  to 
be  you  could  hear  the  Redeemed  a  spell  of  miles 
from  the  church,  now  they're  as  confidential  as  a 
man  borrowing  money.  The  Lord  will  in  no  wise 
acknowledge  the  faint  in  spirit."  Suddenly, 
"Glory!  Glory!"  he  shouted,  and  his  old  eyes 
flamed  with  the  inextinguishable  blaze  of  his 
enthusiasm. 

[131] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

The  minister's  wife  inserted  in  the  door  from  the 
kitchen  a  face  bright  red  from  bending  over  the  stove. 
"Now,  pa,"  she  admonished,  "you'll  scare  them 
children  again." 


[132] 


XXVI 

THE  "board  or  so"  to  be  replaced  on  the  ice 
house,  as  Gordon  had  surmised,  proved  to 
be  extensive — a  large  section  of  the  inner 
wall  had  rotted  from  the  constant  dampness,  the 
slowly  seeping  water.     The  ice  house  stood  back  of 
the  dwelling,  by  the  side  of  the  small  barn  and  be 
yond  a  number  of  apple  trees:  it  was  a  square  struc 
ture  of  boards,  with  no  opening  save  a  low  door 
under  the  peak  of  the  roof  with  a  small  platform 
and  exterior  flight  of  steps. 

In  the  gloomy,  dank  interior  a  rough  ladder,  fas 
tened  to  the  wall,  led  down  to  the  falling  level  of 
soggy  sawdust,  embedded  in  which  the  irregular 
pieces  of  ice  were  preserved  against  the  summer. 
From  the  interior  the  opening  made  a  vivid  square 
of  blue  sky;  for  long  hours  the  blue  increased  in 
brilliancy,  after  which,  veiled  in  a  greyer  haze  of 
heat,  the  patch  of  sky  grew  gradually  paler,  and 
then  clear;  the  suggestion  of  immeasurable  space 
deepened;  above  the  dark  hole  of  the  ice  house  the 
illimitable  distance  was  appalling.  Gordon  was 
resting  from  the  sullen,  muffled  knocking  of  his  ham 
mer  when  a  figure  suddenly  blotted  out  the  light,  hid 

[133] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

the  sky.     He  recognized  the  sharply-cut  silhouette 
of  the  school-teacher. 

"What  a  horrid,  spooky  place,"  she  spoke  with 
a  shiver,  peering  within. 

"It's  cool,"  Gordon  told  her  indifferently. 

"And  quiet,"  she  added,  seating  herself  upon  the 
platform  with  an  elbow  in  the  opening;  "there's  none 
of  the  bothersome  clatter  of  a  lot  of  detestable  chil 
dren."  She  raised  her  voice  in  shrill  mimicry, 
"  'Teacher,  kin  I  be  excused?  Teacher!  .  .  . 
Teacher—!'" 

"Don't  you  like  children?" 

"I  loathe  them,"  she  shot  at  him,  out  of  the  depths 
of  a  profound,  long-accumulated  exasperation;  "the 
muddy  little  beasts." 

"Then  I  wouldn't  be  vexed  with  them." 

"Do  you  like  nailing  boards  in  a  rotten  ice 
house?" 

"Oh,  I'm  dog  poor;  I've  got  to  take  anything 
that  comes  along." 

"And,  you  fool,  do  you  suppose  I'd  be  here  if  I 
had  anything  at  all?  Do  you  suppose  I'd  stay  in 
this  damn  lost  hole  if  I  could  get  anywhere  else? 
Do  you  think  I  have  no  more  possibilities  than 
this?" 

He  mounted  the  ladder,  and  emerged  upon  the 
platform  by  her  side,  where  he  found  a  place,  a 
minute,  for  a  cigarette. 

[134] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

The  woman's  face  was  bitter,  her  body  tense. 

"I'll  grow  old  and  die  in  places  like  this,"  she 
continued  passionately;  "I'll  grow  old  and  die  in 
pokey,  little  schools,  and  wear  prim  calico  dresses, 
with  a  remade  old  white  mull  for  commencements. 
I'll  never  hear  anything  but  twice  two,  and  Persia 
is  bounded  on  the  north  by, — with  all  the  world 
beyond,  Paris  and  London  and  Egypt,  for  the  lucky. 
I  want  to  live,"  she  cried  to  Gordon  Makimmon, 
idly  curious,  to  the  still  branches  of  the  apple  trees, 
the  vista  of  village  half -hid  in  dusty  foliage.  "I 
want  to  see  things,  things  different,  not  these  dumb, 
depressing  mountains.  I  want  to  see  life! " 

Gordon  had  a  swift  memory  of  a  city  street  grey 
in  a  reddening  flood  of  dawn,  of  his  own  voice  in  a 
reddening  flood  of  dawn,  of  his  own  voice  mum 
bling  out  of  an  overwhelming,  nauseous  desperation 
that  same  determination,  desire.  "Perhaps,"  he 
ventured,  "you  wouldn't  think  so  much  of  it  when 
you'd  seen  it." 

"Wouldn't  I?"  she  exclaimed;  "oh,  wouldn't  I? 
— smart  crowds  and  gay  streets  and  shops  on  fire 
with  jewels.  That's  where  I  belong ;  I'd  show  them ; 
I've  got  a  style,  if  I  only  had  a  chance!  I've  got  a 
figure  .  .  .  shoulders." 

He  appraised  in  a  veiled  glance  her  physical  pre 
tensions.  He  discovered,  to  his  surprise,  that  she 
had  "shoulders";  her  body  resembled  her  hands,  it 

[135] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

was  smoothly  rounded,  provocative;  its  graceful  pro 
portion  deceived  the  casual  eye. 

With  a  disdainful  motion  she  kicked  off  a  heavily 
clumsy  slipper — her  instep  arched  narrowly  to  a 
delicate  ankle,  the  small  heel  was  sharply  cut.  "In 
silk,"  she  said,  "and  a  little  brocaded  slipper,  you 
would  see."  She  replaced  the  inadequate  thing  of 
leather.  The  animation  died  from  her  counte 
nance,  she  surveyed  him  with  cold  eyes,  narrowed 
lips.  Her  gaze,  he  felt,  included  him  in  the  imme 
diate,  hateful  scene;  she  gained  fresh  repugnance 
from  his  stained,  collarless  shirt,  his  bagging  knees 
coated  with  sawdust. 

She  rose,  and,  her  skirt  gathered  in  one  hand,  de 
scended  the  precarious  flight  of  steps.  She  crossed 
the  grass  slowly,  her  head  bent,  her  hands  tightly 
clenched. 

Later,  in  the  yard,  Gordon  saw,  at  a  lighted, 
upper  window,  the  silhouette  of  her  back,  a  gleam 
of  white  arm.  The  window  cast  an  elongated  rec 
tangle  of  warm  light  on  the  blue  gloom  of  the  grass. 
It  illuminated  him,  with  his  gaze  lifted;  and,  while, 
standing  in  the  open  window,  she  saw  him  clearly, 
she  was  as  indifferent,  as  contemptuous  of  his  pres 
ence,  as  though  he  had  been  an  animal.  A  film 
of  cambric,  golden  in  the  lamplight,  settled  about 
her  smooth  shoulders,  fell  in  long  diaphanous  lines. 
She  raised  her  arms  to  her  head,  her  hair  slid  darkly 

[136] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

across  her  face,  and  she  turned  and  disappeared. 
He  moved  away,  but  the  memory  rankled  delicately 
in  his  imagination,  returned  the  following  morn 
ing.  The  thought  lingered  of  that  body,  as  fine  as 
ivory,  unguessed,  hidden,  in  a  coarse  sheath. 


[137] 


XXVII 

HIS  miscellaneous  labors  at  the  minister's 
filled  nearly  a  week  of  unremitting  la 
bor.  But,  upon  the  advent  of  Sunday, 
mundane  affairs  were  suspended  in  the  general  con 
fusion  of  preparation  for  church.  It  had  rained 
during  the  night,  the  day  was  cool  and  fragrant  and 
clear,  and  Gordon  determined  to  evade  the  morning's 
services,  and  plunge  aimlessly  into  the  pleasant 
fields.  He  kept  in  the  background  until  the  caval 
cade  had  started,  headed  by  the  minister — the  cir 
cuit  rider  had  driven  off  earlier  in  his  cart  to  an 
outlying  chapel — and  his  wife.  It  was  inviting 
on  the  deserted  veranda,  and  Gordon  lingered  while 
the  village  emptied  into  the  churches,  the  open. 

Finally  he  sauntered  over  the  street,  past  the 
Courthouse,  by  Pompey  Hollidew's  residence.  It 
was,  unlike  the  surrounding  dwellings,  built  of 
brick;  there  was  no  porch,  only  three  stone  steps  de 
scending  from  the  main  entrance,  and  no  flowers. 
The  path  was  overgrown  with  weeds,  the  front  shut 
ters  were  indifferently  flung  back,  half  opened, 
closed.  The  door  stood  wide  open,  and,  as  he 

[138] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

passed,  Gordon  gathered  the  impression  of  a  dark 
heap  on  the  hall  floor.  He  dismissed  an  idle  curi 
osity;  and  then,  for  no  discoverable  reason,  halted, 
turned  back,  for  a  second  glance. 

Even  from  the  path  he  saw  extending  from  the 
heap  an  arm,  a  gnarled  hand.  It  was  Pompey  Hol- 
lidew  himself,  cold,  still,  on  the  floor.  Gordon 
entered,  looking  outside  for  assistance:  no  one  was 
in  sight.  Pompey  Hollidew  wore  the  familiar, 
greenish-black  coat,  the  thread-bare  trousers  and 
faded,  yellow  shirt.  The  battered  derby  had  rolled 
a  short  distance  across  the  floor.  The  dead  man's 
face  was  a  congested,  olive  shade,  with  purple 
smudges  beneath  the  up-rolled  eyes,  and  lips  like 
dried  leaves.  His  end,  it  was  apparent,  had  been 
as  sudden  as  it  was  natural. 

Old  Pompey  .  .  .  dead!  Gordon  straightened 
up.  Simultaneously  two  ideas  flashed  into  his 
mind — Lettice  and  Hollidew's  gold.  Then  they 
grew  coherent,  explicable.  Lettice  and  the  gold 
were  one;  she  was  the  gold,  the  gold  was  Lettice. 
He  recalled  now,  appositely,  what  Bartamon  had 
told  him  but  a  few  days  before  .  .  .  Hollidew 
would  consent  to  make  no  will;  there  were  no  other 
children.  The  money  would  automatically  go, 
principally,  to  Lettice,  without  question  or  contest. 
If  he  had  but  considered  before,  acted  with  ordi 
nary  sense  .  .  .  the  girl  had  been  in  love  with  him; 

[139] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

lie  might  have  had  it  all.  He  gazed  cautiously,  but 
with  no  determined  plan  of  action,  out  over  the 
street — it  lay  deserted  in  the  ambient  sunlight. 

He  quickly  left  the  house,  the  old  man  sprawling 
grotesquely  across  the  bare  hall,  forcing  himself  to 
walk  with  an  assumed,  deliberate  ease  over  the  plank 
walk,  past  Simmons'  corner.  As  he  progressed  a 
plan  formulated  in  his  mind,  a  plan  obvious,  prom 
ising  immediate,  practicable  results  .  .  .  Lettice 
had  told  him  that  she  would  remain  for  two  weeks 
at  the  farm.  It  was  evident  that  she  was  still  there. 
His  gait  quickened;  if  he  could  reach  her  now,  be 
fore  any  one  else.  ...  He  wished  that  he  had 
closed  the  door  upon  the  old  man's  body;  any  one 
passing  as  he  had  passed  could  see  the  corpse;  a 
wagon  would  be  sent  for  the  girl. 

He  commenced,  outside  the  village,  to  run,  pound 
ing  over  the  dusty  way  with  long-drawn,  painful 
gasps,  his  chest  oppressed  by  the  now  unaccustomed 
exercise,  the  rapid  motion.  When  he  came  in  sight 
of  the  farmhouse  that  was  his  objective,  he  stopped 
and  endeavored  to  remove  all  traces  of  his  haste;  he 
rubbed  off  his  shoes,  fingered  his  necktie,  mopped  his 
brow. 

There  was  a  woman  on  the  porch;  it  proved  to  be 
Mrs.  Caley,  folded  in  a  shawl,  pale  and  gaunt. 
Suddenly  the  possibility  occurred  to  him  that  Let 
tice  had  driven  into  church.  But  she  was  in  the 

[140] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

garden  patch  beyond,  Mrs.  Caley  said.  Gordon 
strolled  around  the  corner  of  the  house  as  hastily,  as 
slowly,  as  he  dared. 

He  saw  her  immediately.  She  wore  a  blue  linen 
skirt,  a  white  waist,  and  her  sleeves  were  rolled  up. 
The  sun  glinted  on  her  uncovered  hair,  blazed  in  the 
bright  tin  basin  into  which  she  was  dropping  scarlet 
peppers.  She  appeared  younger  than  he  had  re 
membered  her;  her  arms  were  youthful  and  softly 
dimpled;  her  brow  seemed  again  the  calm,  guileless 
brow  of  a  girl;  her  eyes,  as  she  raised  them  in 
greeting,  were  serene. 

"I  wanted  to  explain  to  you,"  he  began  obliquely, 
"about  that — that  falling  asleep.  It's  been  worry 
ing  me.  You  see,  I  hadn't  had  any  rest  for  three 
or  four  nights,  I  had  been  bothering  about  my  af 
fairs,  and  about  something  more  important  still." 

Bean  poles,  covered  with  bright  green  verdure, 
made  a  background  of  young  summer  for  her  own 
promise  of  early  maturity.  She  placed  the  basin 
on  the  ground,  and  stood  with  her  arms  hanging 
loosely,  gazing  at  him  expectantly,  frankly. 

"The  most  important  thing  in  my  life,"  he  added, 
then  paused.  "I  thought  for  a  while  that  I  had 
better  go  away  without  saying  anything  to  you,  and 
more  particularly  since  I  have  lost  everything." 
He  could  hear,  coming  over  the  road,  the  regular 
hoof-beats  of  a  trotting  horse,  and  he  had  the  feel- 

[141] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

ing  that  it  must  be  a  messenger  from  the  village,  dis 
patched  in  search  of  Lettice  with  the  news  of  her 
father's  death.  For  a  moment  the  horse  seemed  to 
be  stopping ;  he  was  afraid  that  his  opportunity  had 
been  lost;  but,  after  all,  the  hoof  beats  passed,  di 
minished  over  the  road.  Then,  "Since  I  have  lost 
everything,"  he  repeated. 

"Please  tell  me  more,"  she  demanded,  "I  don't 
understand — " 

"But,"  he  continued,  in  the  manner  he  had  hastily 
adopted,  "when  the  time  came  I  couldn't;  I  couldn't 
go  away  and  leave  you.  I  thought,  perhaps,  you 
might  be  different  from  others;  I  thought,  perhaps, 
you  might  like  a  man  for  what  he  was,  and  not  for 
what  he  had.  I  would  come  to  you,  I  decided,  and 
tell  you  all  this,  tell  you  that  I  could  work,  yes,  and 
would,  and  make  enough — "  He  paused  in  order 
to  observe  the  effect  of  his  speech  upon  her.  She 
was  gazing  clear-eyed  at  him,  in  a  sort  of  shining 
expectancy,  a  grave,  eager  comprehension,  appeal 
ing,  incongruous,  to  her  girlhood. 

"But  why?"  she  queried. 

"Because  I'm  in  love  with  you:  I  want  to  marry 
you." 

Her  gaze  did  not  falter,  but  her  color  changed 
swiftly,  a  rosy  tide  swept  over  her  cheeks,  and  died 
away,  leaving  her  pale.  Her  lips  trembled.  A  pal 
pable,  radiant  content  settled  upon  her, 

[142] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"Thank  you,"  she  told  him  seriously;  "it  will 
make  me  very  happy  to  marry  you,  Gordon." 

With  a  fleeting,  backward  glance  he  moved  closer 
to  her,  his  arm  fell  about  her  waist,  he  pressed  a 
hasty,  ill-directed  kiss  upon  her  chin.  "Will  you 
marry  me  now?"  he  asked  eagerly.  "You  see,  oth 
ers  wouldn't  understand,  you  remember  what  your 
father  said  about  the  Makimmon  breed?  They 
would  repeat  that  I  had  nothing,  or  even  that  I  was 
marrying  you  for  old  Pompey's  money.  You  know 
better  than  that,  you  know  he  wouldn't  give  us  a 
penny." 

"It  wouldn't  matter  now  what  any  one  said,"  she 
returned  serenely. 

"But  it  would  be  so  much  easier — we  could  slip 
off  quietly  somewhere,  and  come  back  married,  all 
the  fuss  avoided,  all  the  say  so's  and  say  no's  shut 
up  right  at  the  beginning." 

"When  do  you  want  to  be — be  married?" 

"Right  away!  now!  to-day!" 

"Oh  ...  oh,  Gordon,  but  we  couldn't!  I 
haven't  even  a  white  dress  here.  I  might  go  into 
Greenstream,  be  ready  to-morrow — " 

"No,  no,  no,  I'm  afraid  it  must  be  now  or  never; 
something  would  take  you  from  me.  I  knew  it,  I 
was  afraid  of  it,  from  the  first  ...  I'll  shoot  my 
self." 

She  started  toward  him  in  an  excess  of  tender  pity. 
[143] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"Do  you  care  as  much  as  that?"  She  laid  her 
palms  upon  his  shoulders,  lifting  her  face  to  his: 
"Then  we  will  do  what  you  say,  we  will  go,  yes,  we 
will  go  immediately.  You  can  hitch  up  the  buggy, 
while  I  get  a  little  thing  or  two.  I  have  my  beads, 
and  the  bracelets  that  were  mother's  ...  I  wish 
my  white  organdie  was  here.  You  mustn't  think 
I'm  silly!  You  see — marriage,  for  a  girl  ...  I 
thought  it  would  all  be  so  different.  But,  Gordon 
dear,  we  won't  let  you  be  unhappy." 

He  wished  silently  to  God  that  she  would  get  the 
stuff  in  the  house,  that  they  would  get  started.  At 
any  minute  now  word  would  come  of  the  old  man's 
death,  there  would  be  delay,  Lettice  would  learn  that 
he  had  lied  again  and  again  to  her.  With  a  gesture 
of  impatience  he  dislodged  her  hands  from  his 
shoulders.  "Where's  Sim?"  he  demanded. 

"In  the  long  field.  I'll  show  you  the  stable;  it 
won't  take  me  a  minute  to  get  ready." 

He  hitched,  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time, 
a  tall,  ungainly  roan  horse  into  the  buggy ;  his  prac 
tised  hands  connected  the  straps,  settled  the  head 
stall,  the  collar,  as  if  by  magic.  He  stood  in  a  fever 
of  uneasiness  at  the  harnessed  head.  Lettice  was 
longer  than  she  had  indicated. 

When,  at  last,  she  appeared,  she  carried  a  neatly 
pinned  paper  bundle,  and  a  fragrant  mass  of  hastily 
pulled  roses.  Bright  blue  glass  beads  hung  over  the 

[144] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

soft  contours  of  her  virginal  breasts,  the  bracelets 
that  had  been  her  mother's — enamelled  in  black  on 
old,  reddish  gold — encircled  her  smooth  wrists. 

He  would  have  hurried  her  at  once  into  the  buggy, 
but  she  stopped  him,  and  stood  facing  him  with  level, 
solemn  eyes: 

"I  give  myself  to  you,  Gordon,"  she  said,  "gladly 
and  gladly,  and  I  will  go  wherever  you  go,  and 
try  all  my  life  to  be  what  you  would  like."  As  she 
repeated  her  simple  words,  erect  and  brave,  with  her 
arms  filled  with  roses,  for  a  fleeting  second  he  was 
again  conscious  of  the  vague  menace  that  had  tow 
ered  darkly  at  her  back  on  the  night  when  she  had 
laid  in  his  grasp  that  other  rose  ...  the  rose  that 
had  faded. 

"Let's  get  along,"  he  urged.  The  whip  swung 
out  across  the  roan's  ears,  and  the  horse  started  for 
ward  with  a  vicious  rush.  The  dewy  fragrance  of 
the  flowers  trailed  out  behind  the  buggy,  mingling 
with  the  swirling  dust,  then  both  settled  into  the 
empty  road,  under  the  burning  brightness  of  the 
sun,  the  insensate  beauty  of  the  azure  sky. 


[145] 


TWO 


IN  the  clear  glow  of  a  lengthening  twilight  of 
spring  Gordon  Makimmon  sauntered  into  Sim 
mons'  store.  The  high,  dusty  windows  facing 
the  Courthouse  were  raised,  and  a  warm  air  drifted 
in,  faint  eddies  of  the  fragrance  of  flowering  bushes, 
languorous  draughts  of  a  countryside  newly  green. 

A  number  of  men  idling  over  a  counter  greeted 
him  with  a  familiar  and  instantly  alert  curiosity. 
The  clerk  behind  the  counter  bent  forward  with 
the  brisk  assumption  of  a  business-like  air.  "Cer 
tainly,"  Gordon  replied  to  his  query,  pausing  to 
allow  his  purpose  to  gain  its  full  effect;  "I  want  to 
order  a  suit  of  clothes." 

"Why,  damn  it  fell,  Gord!"  exclaimed  an  indi 
vidual,  with  a  long,  drooping  nose,  a  jaw  which  hung 
loosely  on  a  corded,  bare  throat;  "it  ain't  three  weeks 
ago  but  you  got  a  suit,  and  it  ain't  the  one  you  have 
on  now,  neither." 

"Shut  up,  ToPable,"  Buckley  Simmons  inter 
posed,  "you'll  hurt  trade.  Gordon's  the  Dandy 
Dick  of  Greenstream." 

"Haven't  I  a  right  to  as  many  suits  of  clothes 
[149] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 
as  I've  a  mind  to?"  Gordon  demanded  belliger 
ently. 

"Sure  you  have,  Gord.  You  certainly  have,"  a 
pacific  chorus  replied. 

"I  want  one  like  the  last  drummer  wore  through 
here,"  he  continued;  "a  check  suit  with  braid  on  all 
the  edges." 

The  clerk  dropped  a  bulky  volume  heavily  on  the 
counter.  "The  Chicago  Sartorial  Company,"  he 
asserted,  "have  got  some  swell  checks."  He  ran 
hastily  over  the  pages,  each  with  a  sample  rectangle 
of  cloth  pasted  within  a  printed  gold  border,  and  a 
cabalistic  sign  beneath.  Finally,  "How's  that?"  he 
demanded,  indicating  a  bold,  mathematical  design 
in  pale  orange,  blue  and  grey. 

A  combined  whistle  rose  from  the  onlookers; 
comments  of  mock  amazement  crowded  one  upon  an 
other.  "Jin  ...  go!  He's  got  the  wrong  book — 
that's  rag  carpet.  Don't  look  at  it  too  long,  Gord, 
it'll  cross  your  eyes.  That  ain't  a  suit,  it's  a  game." 
A  gaunt  hand  solemnly  shook  out  imaginary  dice 
upon  the  counter,  "It's  my  move  and  I  can  jump 
you." 

"Gentlemen!  gentlemen!"  the  clerk  protested; 
"this  is  the  finest  article  woven,  the  very  toniest." 

Gordon  dismissed  the  sample  with  a  gesture. 
"I'm  a  man,"  he  pronounced,  "not  a  minstrel."  His 
attention  was  held  by  a  smaller  pattern,  in  black 

[ISO] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

and  white,  with  an  occasional  red  thread  drawn 
through.  "That's  it,"  he  decided;  "that's  it,  with 
braid.  What  will  that  damage  me?" 

The  clerk  consulted  the  sign  appended  to  the 
sample,  then  raced  through  a  smaller,  supplementary 
volume,  where  he  located  the  item  in  question. 
"That  cloth  you  picked  out,"  he  announced  impor 
tantly,  "is  one  of  the  best  the  Chicago  Sartorial 
Company  put  out.  Cut  ample,  with  sleeves  lined 
in  silkaleen  and  back  in  Al  mohair,  it'll  stand  you 
thirty-eight  dollars.  Genuine  Eytalian  thread  silk 
lining  will  come  at  four  and  a  half  more." 

"She'll  do,"  Gordon  told  him,  "with  the  silk  and 
the  braid  edge." 

The  clerk  noted  the  order ;  then  with  a  tape  meas 
ure  affixed  to  a  slim,  wooden  angle,  came  from 
behind  the  counter.  "Remove  the  coat,  please." 

Gordon,  with  a  patent  self-consciousness,  took  off 
his  coat,  revealing  a  flimsy  white  silk  shirt  striped 
like  a  child's  stick  of  candy  in  vivid  green. 

The  whistle  arose  with  renewed  force;  gnarled 
and  blackened  fingers  gingerly  felt  the  shirt's 
texture.  "Man  dear!  The  lily  of  Lebanon. 
Arrayed  like  a  regular  prostitute  .  .  .  silk  shirt 
tails." 

The  clerk  skilfully  conducted  a  series  of  measure 
ments,  noting  results  on  a  printed  form;  outer  and 
inner  seams  were  tallied,  chest  and  thigh  and  knee 

[151] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

recorded,  the  elbow  crooked.  "Don't  forget  his 
teeth,"  the  clerk  was  admonished;  "remember  the 
braid  on  the  pants." 

Gordon  resumed  his  coat,  the  clerk  returned  the 
books  to  their  shelf,  and  the  factitious  excitement 
subsided.  The  light  faded,  the  depths  of  the  store 
swam  in  blue  obscurity,  but  the  fragrance  of  the 
spring  dusk  had  deepened. 

"When  are  you  going  to  get  the  dog,  Gord?" 
Tol'able  asked. 

"What  dog?"  another  interposed  curiously. 

"Why,  ain't  you  heard  about  Gord's  dog,"  the 
chorus  demanded.  "Where  have  you  been — up 
with  the  Dutch  on  the  South  Fork?  Gord's  got  a 
dog  coming  he  give  two  hundred  dollars  for.  Yes, 
sir,  he  paid  for  a  dog,  he  give  real  money  for  a  four- 
legged,  yelping  wire-hound.  It  ain't  a  rabbit  dog, 
nor  a  sheep  dog,  nor  even  a  bull-dog;  but  just  plain, 
stinking  dog." 

"Ah,  he  did  like  hell,  give  two  hundred  for  a 
dog!" 

"Yes,  he  did.  That's  right,  didn't  you,  Gord? 
Two  hundred  1  I  saw  the  cheque.  God  dam'  if  he 
didn't!" 

Gordon  admitted  the  facts  as  far  as  they  had  been 
stated.  "But  this  dog,"  he  explained,  "is  different 
from  the  just  happen  so  hounds  around  here.  This 
dog  has  got  a  pedigree,  his  parents  were  united  by 

[152] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

the  church  all  regular  and  highly  fashionable.  He 
ain't  expected  to  run  rabbits  nor  mangy  sheep;  he 
just  sits  on  the  stoop  eating  sausages  and  syrup,  and 
takes  a  leg  off  any  low  down  parties  that  visit  with 
him  without  a  collar  on.  He'll  be  on  the  Stenton 
stage  this  evening,"  he  added.  "I  got  word  last 
night  he  was  coming." 

They  lounged  to  the  entrance  of  the  store,  gazing 
over  the  still  road,  in  the  direction  from  which  the 
stage  would  arrive.  Valentine  Simmons  was  in  his 
office;  and,  as  Gordon  passed,  he  knocked  on  the 
glass  of  the  enclosure,  and  beckoned  the  other  to 
enter. 

He  greeted  Gordon  Makimmon  cordially,  waving 
him  to  a  seat.  Valentine  Simmons  never,  appar 
ently,  changed;  his  countenance  was  always  freshly 
pink,  the  tufts  of  hair  above  his  ears  like  combed 
lamb's  wool;  his  shirt  with  its  single,  visible  blue 
button  never  lacked  its  immaculate  gloss. 

" You're  looking  as  jaunty  as  a  man  should  with 
the  choice  of  the  land  before  him.  Lucky!  lucky! 
charming  little  wife,  large  fortune  at  your  disposal. 
.  .  .  Pompey  left  one  of  the  solidest  estates  in  this 
section.  Opportune  for  you,  very  .  .  .  miracu 
lous,  if  I  may  say  so.  But  there,  you  ornament  the 
money  as  well  as  any  other.  You  are  right  too — 
a  free  hand;  yours  is  the  time  for  liberality,  no 
cares — they  come  later.  Ah,  Gordon,  have  you 

[153] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

examined  the  details  of  your  late  father-in-law's 
property?  Have  you  searched  through  all  the 
items,  made  yourself  familiar  with  all  the — er, 
petty  and  laborious  details?" 

"No,  not  just  yet,  I  have  been  intending — " 
Simmons  stopped  him  with  an  upraised  palm. 
"No  more,  I  understand  your  thought  exactly.  It's 
a  tiresome  business.  Yours  is  the  time  for  liberal 
ity,  no  cares.  However,  I  had  a  slight  knowledge 
of  Pompey  Hollidew's  arrangements.  He  was  ac 
customed  to  discussing  them  with  me.  He  liked  my 
judgment  in  certain  little  matters;  and,  in  that  way, 
I  got  a  general  idea  of  his  enterprises.  He  was  a 
great  hand  for  timber,  your  father-in-law;  against 
weighty  advice  at  the  time  of  his  death  he  was  buy 
ing  timber  options  here  and  there  in  the  valley. 
Though  what  he  wanted  with  them  .  .  .  beyond 
ordinary  foresight. — No  transportation,  you  see;  no 
railroad  nor  way  of  getting  lumber  out.  But  then, 
he  had  some  visionary  scheme  or  other.  He  held 
some  thousand  acres,  most  of  it  bought  at  a  nominal 
figure.  No  good  to  anybody  now;  but  I  have  got 
the  timber  fever  myself — something  may  turn  up 
in  the  far  future,  perhaps  in  another  generation. 
.  .  .  What  would  you  say  to  a  flat  eight  dollars  an 
acre  for  the  options,  the  money  banked  right  to  your 
credit?  A  neat  little  sum  for  current  pleasures. 
Ah — "  in  spite  of  himself,  Valentine  Simmons  be- 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

came  grave  at  the  contemplation  of  the  amount  in 
volved.  "I  don't  say  I  would  take  all,  but  the  best, 
certainly  the  greater  part." 

"Why,  I  don't  know,"  Gordon  spoke  slowly  from 
an  old-time  suspicion  of  the  other.  "It's  my  wife's 
property." 

"But  such  a  dutiful  little  wife — the  husband's 
word.  Remember,  the  money  in  your  hand." 

"It  certainly  sounds  all  right.  Lettice  would 
have  the  cash  to  show.  I'll  speak  to  her." 

"Better  not  delay.  There  are  other  options; 
owners  are  glad  to  sell.  I  have  given  you  the  privi 
lege  first — old  friend,  old  Presbyterian  friend.  The 
time  is  necessarily  limited." 

As  he  mentally  revolved  the  proposal  Gordon 
could  find  no  palpable  objection:  the  options,  the 
timber,  was  obviously  standing  fallow,  with  no 
means  of  transportation  to  a  market,  in  exchange  for 
ready  money.  Lettice  would  easily  see  the  sense  in 
the  deal;  besides,  he  had  brought  in  her  name  only 
for  form's  sake — he,  Gordon  Makimmon,  held  the 
deciding  vote  in  the  affairs  of  his  home. 

"I  don't  rightly  see  anything  against  it,"  he  ad 
mitted  finally. 

"Good!"  Simmons  declared  with  satisfaction; 
"an  able  man,  you  can  see  as  far  as  the  next  through 
a  transaction.  I'll  have  the  county  clerk  go  over 
the  options,  bring  you  the  result  in  a  couple  of  weeks. 

[155] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

Don't  disturb  yourself;  yours  is  the  time  for  pleas 
ures,  not  papers." 

"Hey,  Gord!"  a  voice  called  thinly  from  with 
out;  "here's  your  dog." 

Gordon  rose  and  made  his  way  to  the  platform 
before  the  store,  where  the  Stenton  stage  had 
stopped.  A  seat  had  been  removed  from  the  surrey, 
its  place  taken  by  a  large  box  with  a  square  opening, 
covered  with  heavy  wire  net  at  one  end,  and  a  board 
fitted  movably  in  grooves  at  the  other.  There  were 
mutters  incredulous,  ironic,  from  the  awaiting  group 
of  men;  envy  was  perceptible,  bitterness  "...  for 
a  dog.  Two  hundred !  Old  Pompey  hollered  out 
of  the  dirt." 

"There  he  is,  Gord,"  the  driver  proclaimed;  "and 
fetching  that  dog  palace'll  cost  you  seventy-five 
cents."  The  box  was  shifted  to  the  platform;  and, 
while  Gordon  unfastened  the  slide,  the  men  gath 
ered  in  a  curious,  mocking  circle. 

The  slide  was  raised,  the  box  sharply  tilted,  and 
a  grotesquely  clumsy  and  grave  young  dog  slid  out. 
There  was  a  hoarse  uproar  of  gibing  laughter,  backs 
and  knees  were  slapped,  heavy  feet  stamped.  The 
dog  stood  puzzled  by  the  tumult:  he  had  a  long, 
square,  shaggy  head,  the  color  of  ripe  wheat;  clear, 
dark  eyes  and  powerful  jaw;  his  body  was  narrow, 
covered  with  straight,  wiry  black  hair;  a  short  tail 
was  half  raised,  tentative;  and  his  wheat  colored 

[156] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

legs  were  ludicrously,  inappropriately,  long  and 
heavy. 

He  stood  patiently  awaiting,  evidently,  some  fa 
miliar  note,  some  reassuring  command,  in  that  unin 
telligible  human  clamor.  Gordon  regarded  him 
through  half-closed,  indifferent  eyes.  "Here,  dog 
gy/'  a  hoarse,  persuasive  voice  called;  a  hand  was 
stretched  out  to  him.  But,  as  he  reached  it,  "Two 
hundred  dollars ! "  the  voice  exclaimed,  and  the  hand 
gave  the  animal  a  quick,  unexpected  thrust.  The 
dog  sprawled  back,  and  fell  on  the  point  of  his 
shoulder.  He  rose  swiftly  to  his  feet  without  a 
whimper,  standing  once  more  at  a  loss  in  the  midst 
of  the  inexplicable  animosity.  He  watched  them  all 
intently,  with  wrinkles  in  his  serious  young  brow. 
When,  from  behind,  another  hand  thrust  him 
sharply  upon  his  jaw,  he  rose  as  quickly  as  possible, 
swaying  a  little  upon  the  inappropriate  legs.  An 
other  suddenly  knocked  his  hind  legs  from  under 
him,  and  he  sat  heavily  upon  his  haunches.  The 
laughter  ran  renewed  about  the  circle. 

The  sum  of  money  that  had  been  expended  upon 
that  single  dog — a  dog  even  that  could  neither  hunt 
rabbits  nor  herd  sheep — had,  it  appeared,  engen 
dered  a  bitter  animosity,  a  personal  spite,  in  the 
hearts  of  the  men  on  the  store  platform.  They 
were  men  to  whom  two  hundred  dollars  was  the 
symbol  of  arduous  months  of  toil,  endless  days  of 

[157] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

precariously  rewarded  labor  with  the  stubborn,  in 
imical  forces  of  nature,  with  swamp  and  rock  and 
thicket.  Two  hundred  dollars!  It  was  the  price 
of  a  roof,  of  health,  of  life  itself. 

A  hard  palm  swung  upon  the  dog's  ribs,  and,  in 
instant  response,  he  fell  upon  his  side.  He  rose 
more  slowly;  stood  isolated,  obviously  troubled. 
He  drew  back  stumbling  from  a  menacing  gesture; 
but  there  was  no  cringing  visible  in  his  immature,  ill- 
proportioned  body;  his  tail  drooped,  but  from  weari 
ness,  discouragement;  his  head  was  level;  his  eyes 
met  the  circle  of  eyes  about  him. 

Gordon  took  no  part  in  the  baiting ;  he  lit  a  cigar, 
snapped  the  match  over  his  shoulder,  carelessly 
watched  his  newest  acquisition.  A  heavy,  wooden- 
soled  shoe  shoved  the  dog  forward.  And  Buckley 
Simmons,  in  an  obvious  improvement  upon  that 
manceuver,  kicked  the  animal  behind  the  ear.  The 
forelegs  rose  with  the  impact  of  the  blow,  and  the 
body  struck  full  length  upon  the  platform,  where  it 
lay  dazed.  But,  finally,  the  dog  got  up  insecurely, 
wabbling;  a  dark  blot  spread  slowly  across  the 
straw-colored  head. 

No  one,  it  was  evident,  was  prepared  for  the  sud 
den  knifelike  menace  of  Gordon  Makimmon's  voice 
as  he  bent  over  the  dog  and  wiped  the  blood  upon 
his  sleeve. 

[158] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"Kick  him  again,  Buck,"  he  said;  "kick  him 
again  and  see  how  funny  it'll  be." 

"Why,  Gordon,"  Buckley  Simmons  protested,  "we 
were  all  stirring  him  up  a  little ;  you  didn't  say  any 
thing—" 

Makimmon  picked  the  dog  up,  holding  him 
against  his  side,  the  awkward  legs  streaming  down 
in  an  uncomfortable  confusion  of  joints  and  paws. 
"I  paid  two  hundred  dollars  for  this  dog,"  he  pro 
nounced,  "as  a  piece  of  dam'  foolishness,  a  sort  of 
drunken  joke  on  Greenstream.  But  it's  no  joke; 
the  two  hundred  was  cheap.  I've  seen  a  lot  of  good 
men — I'm  not  exactly  a  peafowl  myself — but  this 
young  dog's  better'n  any  man  I  ever  stood  up  to; 
he's  got  more  guts." 

He  abruptly  turned  his  back  upon  the  gathering, 
and  descended  to  the  road,  carrying  the  limp,  warm 
body  all  the  way  home. 


[159] 


II 

IT  was  his  own  home  to  which  he  returned,  the 
original  dwelling  of  the  Makimmons  in  Green- 
stream.  He  could  not,  he  had  told  Lettice,  be 
comfortable  anywhere  else;  he  could  not  be  content 
with  it  closed  against  the  living  sound  of  the  stream, 
or  in  strange  hands.  Some  changes  had  been  made 
since  his  marriage — another  space  had  been  en 
closed  beyond  the  kitchen,  a  chamber  occupied  by 
Sim  Caley  and  his  wife,  moved  from  the  outlying 
farm  where  Lettice  had  spent  her  weeks  of  "re 
treat"  throughout  the  passing  summers.  The  ex 
terior  had  been  painted  leaden-grey,  and  a  shed 
transformed  into  a  small,  serviceable  stable.  But 
the  immediate  surroundings  were  the  same:  the 
primitive  sweep  still  rose  from  the  well,  a  cow  still 
grazed  in  the  dank  grass ;  the  stream  slipped  by,  mir 
roring  its  stable  banks,  the  foliage  inexhaustibly  re 
plenished  by  nature;  beyond  the  narrow  valley  the 
mountain  range  shut  out  the  rising  sun,  closed 
Greenstream  into  its  deep,  verdurous  gorge. 

High  above,  the  veil  of  light  was  still  rosy,  but  it 
was   dusk   about   Gordon   Makimmon's   dwelling. 

[160] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

Lettice,  in  white,  with  a  dark  shawl  drawn  about 
her  shoulders,  was  standing  on  the  porch.  She 
spoke  in  a  strain  of  querulous  sweetness: 

"Gordon,  you've  been  the  longest  while.  Mrs. 
Caley  says  your  supper's  all  spoiled.  You  know 
she  likes  to  get  the  table  cleared  right  early  in  the 
evening. " 

"Is  Mrs.  Caley  to  have  her  say  in  this  house  or 
am  I?  That's  what  I  want  to  know.  Am  I  to  eat 
so's  she  can  clear  the  table,  or  is  she  to  clear  the  table 
when  I  have  had  my  supper?" 

"When  it  suits  you,  Gordon,  of  course.  Oh, 
Gordon!  whatever  are  you  carrying?" 

"A  dog!" 

"I  didn't  know  you  wanted  a  dog."  An  accent 
of  doubt  crept  into  her  voice,  a  hesitation.  "I  don't 
know  if  I  want  a  dog  around  .  .  .  just  now,  Gor 
don." 

"He  won't  do  any  harm;  he's  only  a  young  dog, 
anyhow.  Ain't  you  a  young  dog,  a  regular  puppy? 
But,  Lettice,  he's  got  the  grit  of  General  Jackson; 
he  stood  right  up  against  the  crowd  at  the  store." 

"Still,  Gordon,  right  now—" 

"I  told  you  he  wouldn't  do  any  harm,"  the  man 
repeated  in  irritated  tones;  "he  will  be  with  me  most 
of  the  time,  and  not  around  the  house.  You're  get 
ting  too  cranky  for  living,  Lettice."  He  set  the  dog 
upon  his  feet.  "What  I'll  call  him  I  don't  know; 

[161] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

he's  as  gritty  as — why,  yes,  I  do,  I'll  call  him  Gen 
eral  Jackson.  C'm  here,  General." 

The  dog  still  wavered  slightly.  He  stood  intently 
regarding  Gordon.  "Here,  here,  General  Jackson." 
After  another  long  scrutiny  he  walked  slowly  up  to 
Gordon,  raised  his  head  toward  the  man's  counte 
nance.  Gordon  Makimmon  was  delighted. 
"That's  a  smart  dog!"  he  exclaimed;  "smarter'n 
half  the  people  I  know.  He's  got  to  have  some 
thing  to  eat.  Lettice,  will  you  tell  Mrs.  Caley  to 
give  General  something  to  eat,  and  nothing's  too 
good  for  him,  either." 

Lettice  walked  to  the  door  of  the  kitchen  and 
transmitted  Gordon's  request  to  the  invisible  Mrs. 
Caley.  The  latter  appeared  after  a  moment  and 
stood  gazing  somberly  at  the  man  and  dog.  She 
was  a  tall,  ungainly  woman,  with  a  flat,  sexless  body 
and  a  deeply-lined  face  almost  the  color  of  her  own 
salt-raised  bread.  "This  is  General  Jackson," 
Gordon  explained  out  of  the  settling  dark;  "he'd 
thank  you  for  a  panful  of  supper.  Come  on,  Gen 
eral,  come  on  in  the  kitchen.  No,  Mrs.  Caley  won't 
bite  you;  she'll  give  us  something  to  eat." 

The  room  next  to  the  kitchen,  that  had  been 
Clare's,  had  been  stripped  of  its  furnishing,  and  a 
glistening  yellow  pine  table  set  in  the  middle,  with 
six  painted  wood  chairs.  The  table  was  perpetu 
ally  spread  on  a  fringed  red  or  blue  cloth;  the 

[162] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

center  occupied  by  a  large  silver-plated  castor,  its 
various  rings  filled  with  differently  shaped  bottles 
and  shakers.  At  the  end  where  Lettice  sat  heavy 
white  cups  and  saucers  were  piled;  at  Gordon's 
place  a  knife  and  fork  were  propped  up  on  their 
guards.  On  either  side  were  the  plates  of  Simeon 
and  Mrs.  Caley.  Each  place  boasted  a  knife  and 
formidable  steel  fork — the  spoons  were  assembled 
in  a  glass  receptacle — and  a  napkin  thrust  into  a 
ring  of  plaited  hair  plainly  marked  with  the  sign  of 
the  respective  owner. 

Mrs.  Caley  silently  put  before  Gordon  a  pinkish 
loin  of  pork,  boiled  potatoes  and  a  bowl  of  purple, 
swimming  huckleberries ;  this  she  fortified  by  a  ves 
sel  of  gravy  and  section  of  pie.  There  was  tea. 
"Where's  Lettice?"  Gordon  demanded.  Appar 
ently  Mrs.  Caley  had  not  heard  him.  "Lettice,"  he 
raised  his  voice;  "here's  supper." 

"I  don't  want  anything  to  eat,  thank  you,  Gor 
don,"  she  returned  from  another  room. 

"You  ought  to  eat,"  he  called  back,  attacking  the 
pork.  Then  he  muttered,  " — full  of  ideas  and  airs. 
Soft." 


[163] 


Ill 


BEYOND  the  dining  room  was  their  bedroom, 
and  beyond  that  a  chamber  which,  for  years 
in  a  state  of  deserted,  semi-ruin,  Gordon 
had  had  newly  floored  and  rendered  weather-proof, 
and  now  used  as  a  place  of  assemblage.     He  found 
Lettice  there  when  he  had  finished  supper. 

She  was  sitting  beside  a  small  table  which  held  a 
lighted  lamp  with  a  shade  of  minute,  woven  pieces 
of  various  silks.  Behind  her  was  a  cottage  organ, 
a  mass  of  fretted  woodwork;  a  wall  pierced  by  a 
window  was  ornamented  by  a  framed  photograph 
of  a  woman  dead  and  in  her  coffin.  The  photo 
graph  had  faded  to  a  silvery  monotony,  but  the  de 
tails  of  the  rigid,  unnatural  countenance,  the  fixed 
staring  eyes,  were  still  clear.  Redly  varnished 
chairs  with  green  plush  cushions  and  elaborate, 
thread  antimacassars,  a  second  table  ranged  against 
the  wall,  bearing  a  stout  volume  entitled  "A  Cloud 
of  Witnesses,"  and  a  cheap  phonograph,  completed 
the  furnishing. 

It  was  warm  without,  but  Lettice  had  shut  the 
window,  the  shawl  was  still  about  her  shoulders. 
She  was  sewing  upon  a  small  piece  of  white  material. 

[164] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"Here,  General,  here,"  Gordon  commanded,  and 
the  dog  followed  him  seriously  into  the  room.  "Pat 
him,  Lettice,  so's  he'll  get  to  know  you,"  he  urged. 

"I  don't  think  I  want  to,"  she  began;  but,  at  her 
husband's  obvious  impatience,  she  experimented 
doubtfully,  "Here,  puppy." 

"Can't  you  call  him  by  his  name?"  he  inter 
rupted.  "How  ever'll  he  come  to  know  it?" 

"I  don't  want  to  call  him  at  all,"  she  protested, 
a  little  wildly.  "I  don't  like  him  to-night;  perhaps 
to-morrow  I  will  feel  different." 

"Well,  do  or  don't,  that  dog's  a  part  of  the  house, 
and  I  don't  want  to  hear  Mrs.  Caley  say  this  or  that 
about  it,  neither." 

"Mrs.  Caley  isn't  as  bad  as  you  make  her  out; 
it's  me  she's  thinking  about  most  of  the  time.  I  tell 
her  men  are  not  like  women,  they  never  think  about 
the  little  things  we  do.  Father  was  like  that  .  .  . 
you  are  too.  That's  all  the  men  I  have  known." 
Her  voice  trailed  off  into  an  abrupt  silence,  she  sat 
staring  into  the  room  with  the  needlework  forgotten 
in  her  hand. 

Gordon  turned  to  the  dog,  playing  with  him,  pull 
ing  his  ears.  General  Jackson,  in  remonstrance, 
softly  bit  Gordon's  hand.  "That's  a  dandy  dog. 
Making  yourself  right  at  home,  hey!  Biting  right 
back,  are  you!  Let  me  feel  your  teeth,  phew — " 

"Gordon,"  Lettice  exclaimed  suddenly  in  a 
[165] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

throaty  voice,  "I'm  afraid.  .  .  .  Tell  me  it  will  be 
all  right,  Gordon." 

He  looked  up  from  the  dog,  startled  by  the  un 
accustomed  vibration  of  her  tones.  "Of  course  it 
will  be  all  right,"  he  reassured  her  hastily,  making 
an  effort  to  keep  his  impatience  from  his  voice;  "I 
never  guessed  you  were  so  easy  scared." 

"I'll  try  not,"  she  returned  obediently.  "Mrs. 
Caley  says  it  will  be  all  right,  too."  She  seemed, 
he  thought,  even  younger  than  when  he  had  married 
her.  She  was  absurdly  girlish.  It  annoyed  him; 
it  seemed,  unjustly,  to  place  too  great  a  demand 
upon  his  forbearance,  his  patience.  A  wife  should 
be  able  to  give  and  take — this  was  almost  like  hav 
ing  a  child  to  tend.  Lately  she  had  been  frightened 
even  at  the  dark,  she  had  wakened  him  over  nothing 
at  all,  fancies. 

He  decided  to  pay  no  further  attention  to  her 
imagining ;  and  moved  to  the  phonograph,  where  he 
selected  one  of  a  small  number  of  waxy  cylinders. 
"We'll  see  how  the  General  likes  music,"  he  pro 
claimed.  He  slipped  the  cylinder  over  a  projection, 
and  wound  the  mechanism.  A  sharp,  high  scratch 
ing  responded,  as  painful  as  a  pin  dragging  over  the 
ear  drum,  a  meaningless  cacophony  of  sounds  that 
gradually  resolved  into  a  thin,  incredibly  metallic 
melody  which  appeared,  mercifully,  to  come  from 
a  distance.  To  this  was  presently  joined  a  voice, 

[166] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

the  voice,  as  it  were,  of  a  sinister,  tin  manikin  gal 
vanized  into  convulsive  song.  The  words  grew 
audible  in  broken  phrases: 

.  .  .  was  a  lucky  man, 

Rip  van  Winkle  .  .  .  grummmble 

.  .  .  never  saw  the  women 

At  Coney  Island  swimming  .  .  . 

General  Jackson  sat  abruptly  on  his  haunches, 
and  lifted  a  long,  quavering  protest.  As  the  cylin 
der  went  round  and  round,  and  the  shrill  perform 
ance  continued,  the  dog's  howling  grew  wilder;  it 
reached  a  point  where  it  broke  into  a  hoarse  cough, 
then  again  it  recommenced  lower  in  the  scale,  carry 
ing  over  a  gamut  of  indescribable,  audible  misery. 

Gordon  slapped  his  leg  in  acute  enjoyment.  "The 
General's  a  regular  opera  singer,  a  high-rolling  ca 
nary.  Go  after  it  ...  a  regular  concert  dog." 

"Gordon,"  Lettice  said,  in  a  small,  strained 
voice.  Apparently  he  had  not  heard  her.  "Gor 
don,"  she  repeated  more  loudly.  She  had  dropped 
the  piece  of  sewing,  her  hands  were  clenched,  her  face 
wet  and  pallid.  "Gordon ! "  she  cried,  her  voice  cut 
ting  through  the  sound  of  the  phonograph  and  the 
howling  dog;  "stop  it,  do  you  hear!  I'll  go  crazy! 
Stop  it!  Stop  it!  Stop  it!" 

He  silenced  the  machine  in  genuine  surprise. 
"Why,  everything  works  you  up  to-night.  I  thought 

[167] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

you'd  like  to  hear  General  Jackson  sing;  he's  got 
a  real  deep  barytone." 

Lettice  sat  limply  in  her  chair.  "I  stood  it  just  as 
long  as  I  could,"  she  half  whispered. 

Gordon  walked  to  the  unshuttered  window,  gazing 
out;  above  the  impenetrable,  velvety  dark  of  the 
western  range  the  stars  gleamed  like  drops  of  water. 
He  felt  unsettled,  ill  at  ease;  dissatisfaction  irked 
his  thoughts  and  emotions.  His  unrest  was  without 
tangible  features;  it  permeated  him  from  an  undi- 
vined  cause,  oppressed  him  with  indefinable  longing. 
He  got,  he  dimly  realized,  but  a  limited  amount  of 
satisfaction  from  the  money  now  at  his  command. 
He  was  totally  without  financial  instinct — money 
for  itself,  the  abstraction,  was  beyond  his  compre 
hension.  He  had  bought  a  ponderous  gold  watch, 
which  he  continually  neglected  to  wind ;  the  years  of 
stage  driving  had  sated  him  of  horses;  his  clothes 
were  already  a  subject  of  jest  in  Greenstream;  and 
he  had  seriously  damaged  his  throat,  and  the  throat 
of  Sim  Caley,  with  cigars.  He  had  been  glad  to 
return  to  the  familiar,  casual  cigarettes,  the  generous 
bag  of  Green  Goose  for  five  cents ;  Sim  had  reverted 
to  his  haggled  plug.  He  had  no  desire  to  build  a 
pretentious  dwelling — his  instinct,  his  clannish 
spirit,  was  too  closely  bound  up  in  the  house  of  his 
father  and  grandfather  to  derive  any  pleasure  from 
that. 

[168] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

After  he  had  spent  a  limited  amount,  the  princi 
pal  at  his  disposal  lay  untouched,  unrealized.  He 
got  a  certain  measure  of  content  from  its  sheer  bulk 
at  his  back;  it  ministered  to  his  vanity,  to  his  su 
preme  self  importance.  He  liked  negligently  to 
produce,  in  Simmons'  store,  a  twenty  or  even  fifty 
dollar  currency  note,  and  then  conduct  a  search 
through  his  pockets  for  something  smaller.  He 
drank  an  adequate  amount  of  whiskey,  receiving  it 
in  jugs  semi-surreptitiously  by  way  of  the  Stenton 
stage;  Greenstream  County  was  "dry,"  but  whiskey 
in  gallons  was  comparatively  inexpensive.  He 
would  have  gambled,  but  two  dollars  was  a  momen 
tous  hazard  to  the  habitual  card  players  of  the  vil 
lage.  He  thought,  occasionally,  of  taking  a  short 
trip,  of  two  or  three  days,  to  nearby  cities  outside 
his  ken,  or  to  the  ocean — Gordon  had  never  seen  a 
large  body  of  water;  but  his  life  had  travelled  such 
a  narrow  course,  he  was  so  accustomed  by  blood  and 
experience  to  the  feel  of  the  mountains,  that,  when 
the  moment  arrived  to  consider  an  actual  departure, 
he  drew  back  .  .  .  put  it  off. 

What  he  was  subconsciously  longing  for  was 
youth.  He  was  instinctively  rebelling,  struggling, 
against  the  closing  fetters  of  time,  against  the  dilu 
tion  of  his  blood  by  time,  the  hardening  of  his  bones, 
the  imperceptible  slackening  of  his  muscles.  His 
intimate  contact  with  the  vigorous  youth  of  Lettice 

[169] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

had  precipitated  this  rebellion,  this  strife  in  which 
he  was  doomed.  He  would  have  hotly  repudiated 
the  insinuation  that  he  was  growing  old;  he  would 
still,  perhaps,  have  fought  the  man  who  said  that  he 
was  failing.  And  such  a  statement  would  be  beside 
the  fact;  no  perceptible  decay  had  yet  set  up  at  the 
heart  of  his  manhood.  But  the  inception  of  that 
process  was  imminent;  the  sloth  consequent  upon 
Lettice's  money  was  hastening  it. 

Lettice's  youthful  aspect,  persisting  in  the  face  of 
her  approaching  motherhood,  disconcerted  him;  it 
was  inappropriate.  Her  freshly-flushed,  rounded 
cheeks  beside  his  own  weather-beaten,  lean  jaw  of 
fered  a  comment  too  obvious  for  enjoyment.  He 
resented,  from  his  own  depleting  store,  her  unspent 
sum  of  days.  It  created  in  him  an  animosity  which, 
as  he  turned  from  the  window,  noted  almost  with 
relief  faint  lines  about  her  mouth,  the  sinking  of  her 
color. 

She  was  sitting  with  her  eyes  shut,  the  sewing 
neglected  in  her  lap,  and  did  not  see  Mrs.  Caley 
standing  in  the  doorway.  The  woman's  gaze  lin 
gered  for  a  moment,  with  an  unmasked,  burning  con 
tempt,  upon  Gordon  Makimmon,  then  swept  on  to 
the  girl. 

"Lettice!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  species  of  exas 
perated  concern,  "don't  you  know  better  than  to  sit 
up  to  all  hours?" 

[170] 


IV 

THE  following  morning,  "Oh,  Gordon!"  Lat 
tice  cried,  "I  like  him  ever  so  much;  he 
played  and  played  with  me." 

Gordon  had  gone  to  the  post-office,  and  was  de 
scending  the  slope  from  the  public  road  to  his  dwell 
ing.  He  found  Lettice  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the 
porch,  and,  panting  vigorously,  the  dog  extended 
before  her,  an  expression  of  idiotic  satisfaction  on 
his  shaggy  face.  They  were,  together,  an  epitome 
of  extreme  youth;  and  Gordon's  discontent,  revived 
from  the  night  before,  overflowed  in  facile  displeas 
ure. 

"Don't  you  know  better  than  to  run  him  on  a 
warm  morning  like  this?"  he  complained;  "as  like 
as  not  now  he'll  take  a  fit;  young  dogs  mustn't  get 
their  blood  heated  up." 

The  animation  died  from  her  countenance,  leav 
ing  it  almost  sullen,  her  shoulders  drooped  deject 
edly.  "It  seems  nothing  suits  you,"  she  observed; 
"you're  cross  when  I  don't  like  the  dog  and  you're 
cross  when  I  do.  I  can't  satisfy  you,  anyhow." 

"There's  some  difference  in  making  over  the  dog 
[171] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

and  playing  him  out.  Come  here,  General  Jack 
son."  The  animal  rose  and  yapped,  backing  play 
fully  away.  "Don't  you  hear  me?  Come  right 
here."  The  dog,  sensitive  to  the  growing  menace  in 
the  voice,  moved  still  further  away.  "C'm  here, 
damn  you,"  Gordon  shot  out.  The  dog  grew  stub 
born,  and  refused  to  move  forward ;  and  Gordon,  his 
anger  thoroughly  aroused,  picked  up  a  large  stone 
and  threw  it  with  all  his  force,  missing  General  Jack 
son  by  a  narrow  margin. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  Lettice  observed  in  a  studiously 
detached  voice,  "I  wouldn't  throw  stones  at  a  dog 
I  had  paid  two  hundred  dollars  for." 

Gordon  was  momentarily  disconcerted.  He  had 
not  intended  to  tell  Lettice  how  much  the  General 
had  cost.  And  yet,  he  reflected,  since  the  village 
knew,  with  Sim  Caley's  wife  in  the  house,  it  had 
been  folly  to  hope  to  keep  it  from  her. 

"It's  his  pedigree,"  he  explained  lamely;  "cham 
pion  stock,  imported."  His  temper  again  slowly 
got  the  better  of  his  wisdom.  "What  if  I  did  pay 
two  hundred  dollars  for  him?"  he  demanded;  "it's 
harmless,  ain't  it?  I'd  a  sight  better  do  that  than 
some  other  things  I  might  mention." 

"I  only  said,"  she  repeated  impersonally,  "that 
I  would  not  throw  stones  at  a  dog  that  had  cost  so 
much  money." 

"You're  getting  on  the  money  now,  are  you? 
[172] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

Going  to  start  that  song?  That'll  come  natural  to 
you.  When  I  first  married  you  I  couldn't  see  how 
you  were  old  Pompey's  daughter,  but  I  might  have 
known  it  would  come  out.  I  might  have  known  you 
weren't  the  daughter  of  the  meanest  man  in  Green- 
stream  for  nothing.  ...  I  suppose  I'll  hear  about 
that  money  all  the  rest  of  my  life." 

"Perhaps  I  will  die,  and  then  you  will  have  no 
bother."  " 

"That's  a  nice  way  to  talk;  that  makes  me  out 
a  fine  figure  of  a  man  .  .  .  with  Mrs.  Caley  in  the 
kitchen  there,  laying  right  over  every  word;  the  old 
vinegar  bottle." 

"Don't  you  say  another  word  about  Mrs.  Caley," 
Lettice  declared  passionately;  "she  nursed  my 
mother  in  her  last  sickness;  and  she  took  care  of 
me  for  years,  when  there  wasn't  anybody  else  hardly 
knew  if  I  was  alive  or  not.  If  it  wasn't  for  Mrs. 
Caley  right  now  I  guess  I'd  be  in  an  early  grave." 

Gordon  Makimmon  stood  silenced  by  the  last  out 
burst.  The  tall,  meager  figure  of  Mrs.  Caley  ap 
peared  upon  the  porch.  She  was  clad  in  black 
calico,  and  wore  grey  felt  slippers.  Her  head  was 
lowered,  her  closed  lips  quivered,  her  bony  fingers 
twitched.  She  never  addressed  a  word  to  Gordon 
directly;  and,  he  decided,  when  she  did,  it  would  be 
monumental,  dumbfounding.  The  present  moment 
was  more  than  usually  unpropitious ;  and,  discover- 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

ing  General  Jackson  at  his  heels,  he  picked  the  dog 
up  and  departed  for  the  stable,  where  he  saw  Sim 
Caley  putting  the  horse  into  the  buggy. 

"I  thought  I'd  go  over  to  the  farm  beyond  the 
priest's,"  he  answered  Gordon's  query;  "Tol'able's 
an  awful  slack  hand  with  cattle." 

"Your  wife  ought  to  run  that  place;  she'd  walk 
those  steers  around  on  a  snake  fence." 

Simeon  Caley  preserved  a  diplomatic  silence. 
He,  too,  was  long  and  lean.  He  had  eyes  of  the 
most  innocent  and  tender  blue  imaginable  in  a 
countenance  seamed  and  scarred  by  protracted  de 
bauch,  disease,  abuse.  It  was  said  of  him  that  if 
all  the  liquor  he  had  consumed  were  turned  loose  on 
the  mountain  it  would  sweep  Greenstream  village  to 
the  farther  end  of  the  valley. 

His  voice,  like  his  eyes,  was  gentle.  "Come  right 
along,  Gord;  there's  some  draining  you  ought  to 
see  to.  It's  a  nice  drive,  anyways."  Gordon  took 
the  reins,  slapping  them  on  the  rough,  sturdy  back 
of  the  horse,  and  they  started  up  the  precarious  track 
to  the  rod.  General  Jackson's  head  hung  panting, 
wild-eyed,  from  the  side  of  the  vehicle. 


[-1741 


IT  was  late  when  they  returned  from  the  farm. 
Gordon  left  the  buggy  at  the  Courthouse.  The 
thought  of  his  dwelling,  with  Lettice's  importu 
nate  fancies  and  complaints,  was  distasteful  to  him. 
A  long-drawn-out  evening  in  the  monotonous  sitting 
room,  with  the  grim  form  of  Mrs.  Caley  in  the  back 
ground,  was  insupportable.  There  was  no  light  in 
the  office  of  the  Bugle,  but  there  was  a  pale  yellow 
blur  in  the  lower  windows  of  Peterman's  hotel.  It 
might  be  that  a  drummer  had  arrived,  and  was  en 
tertaining  a  local  circle  with  the  pungent  wit  of  the 
road;  and  Gordon  made  his  way  toward  the  hotel. 
It  was  a  painted,  wooden  structure,  two  stories  in 
height,  with  a  wing  that  ran  back  from  the  road. 
The  rooms  in  the  latter  section  were  reached  from 
an  outside,  uncovered  gallery,  gained  by  a  flight  of 
steps  at  the  back.  Contrary  to  his  expectation  no 
one  was  in  the  office;  a  lamp  shone  on  an  empty 
array  of  chairs.  But  some  one  was  on  the  gallery 
above;  he  could  see  a  white  skirt  through  the  railing, 
make  out  the  dark  blot  of  a  head  upon  the  night. 
The  illumination  from  within  shone  on  his  face. 

[1751 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

The  form  above  him  leaned  forward  over  the  rail 
ing.  "Mr.  Makimmon,"  a  woman's  voice  said,  "if 
you  want  Mr.  Peterman,  I'll  call  him.  He's  at  the 
back  of  the  house." 

Gordon  was  totally  unaware  of  her  identity. 

"No,"  he  replied,  hesitatingly,  "I  wasn't  after 
him  in  particular — " 

"You  don't  know  me,"  she  challenged,  laughing; 
"it's  Meta  Beggs;  I  teach  the  school,  you  know." 

Instantly  the  memory  returned  to  him  of  a  wom 
an's  round,  gleaming  shoulders  slipping  into  a  web 
of  soft  white;  he  recalled  the  school-teacher's  bitter 
arraignment  of  her  life,  her  prospects.  "I  didn't 
know  you,"  he  admitted,  "and  that's  the  fact;  it  was 
the  dark."  He  hesitated  once  more,- conscious  of  the 
awkwardness  of  his  position,  talking  upward  to  an 
indistinguishable  shape.  "I  heard  you  were  back," 
he  continued  impotently. 

"Yes,"  she  assented,  "there  was  nothing  else  open. 
.  .  .  Won't  you  come  up  and  smoke  a  cigarette? 
It's  pleasant  here  on  the  gallery." 

He  mounted  the  steps,  making  his  way  over  the 
narrow,  hollow-sounding  passage  to  her  side.  She 
was  seated  overlooking  the  rift  of  the  valley.  "I'll 
get  you  a  chair,"  she  said,  rising.  At  her  side  a 
door  opened  into  a  dim  room.  "No,  no,"  he  pro 
tested,  "let  me — in  here?" 

He  entered  the  room.  It  was,  he  divined,  hers. 
[176] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

His  foot  struck  against  a  chair,  and  his  hand  caught 
the  back.  A  thin,  clinging  under-garment  rested 
on  it,  which  he  deposited  on  a  vague  bed.  It  stuck 
to  his  fingers  like  a  cobweb.  There  was  just  room 
on  the  balcony  to  arrange  the  chairs  side  by  side. 


[177] 


VI 

THE  spring  night  was  potent,  warm  and 
damp;  it  was  filled  with  intangible  influ 
ences  which  troubled  the  mind  and  stirred 
the  memory  to  vain,  melancholy  groping.  Meta 
Beggs  was  so  close  to  Gordon  that  their  shoulders 
touched.  He  rolled  a  cigarette  and  lit  it,  resting  his 
arms  upon  the  railing.  Her  face  was  white  in  the 
gloom ;  not  white  as  Lettice's  had  been,  like  a  flower, 
but  sharply  cut  like  marble ;  her  nose  was  finely  mod 
elled,  her  lips  were  delicately  curved,  but  thin, 
compressed.  He  could  distinguish  over  her  the 
paramount  air  of  dissatisfaction. 

She  aroused  in  him  unbidden  thoughts;  without 
the  slightest  freedom  of  gesture  or  words  she  gave 
the  impression  of  careless  license.  He  grew  in 
stinctively,  at  once,  familiar,  confidential,  in  his  at 
titude  toward  her.  And  she  responded  in  the  same 
manner;  she  did  not  draw  back  when  their  arms 
accidentally  met. 

An  interest,  a  vivacity  of  manner,  such  as  Gordon 
had  not  experienced  for  weeks  stirred  in  him.  Meta 
Beggs  called  back  into  being  the  old  freedom  of 

[178] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

stage-driving  days,  of  the  younger  years.  Her  man 
ner  flattered  his  sex  vanity.  They  progressed 
famously. 

"You  don't  like  the  children  any  better  than  you 
did?" 

"They  get  more  like  rats  every  year." 
"I  thought  about  you,  held  against  your  will." 
"Don't  tell  lies;  I  went  right  out  of  your  mind." 
"Not  as  quick  as  I  went  out  of  yours.     I  did 
think  about  you,  though — "  he  stopped,  but  she  in 
sisted  upon  his  finishing  the  remark.     "Well,   I 
remembered  what  you  said  about  your  shoulders, 
and  I  saw  you  that  night  at  your  window.  .  .  ." 

"Men,  somehow,  are  always  curious  about  me," 
she  remarked  indifferently;  "they  have  bothered  me 
ever  since  I  was  a  girl.  I  make  them  mad.  I  never 
worry  about  such  things  myself — from  the  way 
women  talk,  and  men  go  on,  there  must  be  something 
left  out  of  me  ...  it  just  seems  silly  to  get  all  red 
in  the  face — " 

He  almost  constructed  her  words  into  a  challenge. 
Five  years  ago,  he  continued,  or  only  two,  he  would 
have  changed  her  conception  of  living,  he  would 
have  broken  down  her  indifference,  but  now —  His 
mental  deliberations  ended  abruptly,  for,  even  in  his 
mind,  he  avoided  all  reference  to  Lettice;  they  studi 
ously  omitted  her  name  in  their  conversation. 

"Are  you  going  to  the  camp  meeting  on  South 
[179] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

Fork  next  week?"  she  demanded.  "I  have  never 
seen  one.  Buckley  Simmons  says  all  sorts  of  things 
happen.  He's  going  to  take  me  on  Saturday.  I 
wish — "  she  broke  off  pointedly. 

"What?" 

"I  was  going  to  say  that  I  wish,  well — I  wish  I 
were  going  with  somebody  else  than  Buckley;  he 
bothers  me  all  the  time." 

"I'd  like  a  lot  to  take  you.  It's  not  fit  for  you 
to  go,  though.  The  best  people  in  Greenstream 
don't.  They  get  crazy  with  religion,  and  with  rum ; 
often  as  not  there's  shooting." 

"Oh!  I  had  no  idea.  I  don't  know  as  I  will  go. 
I  wish  you  would  be  there.  If  I  go  will  you  be  there 
to  look  out  for  me?" 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  it.  Still,  if  you're  there,  and 
want  me  around,  I  guess  that's  where  I  will  be." 

"I  feel  better  right  away;  I'll  see  you  then;  it's  a 
sort  of  engagement  between  you  and  me.  Buckley 
Simmons  needn't  know.  Perhaps  we  can  slip  away 
from  him  for  a  while." 

Voices  rose  from  below  them,  and  they  drew  back 
instinctively.  Gordon  found  in  this  desire  to  avoid 
observation  an  additional  bond  with  Meta  Beggs; 
the  aspect  of  secrecy  gave  a  flavor  to  their  com 
munion.  They  remained  silent,  with  their  shoul 
ders  pressed  together,  until  the  voices,  the  footfalls, 
faded  into  the  distance. 

[180] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

He  rose  to  leave,  and  she  held  out  her  hand.  At 
its  touch  he  recalled  how  pointed  the  fingers  were; 
it  was  incredibly  cool  and  smooth,  yet  it  seemed  to 
instil  a  subtle  fire  in  his  palm.  She  stood  framed  in 
her  doorway,  bathed  in  the  intimate,  disturbing 
aroma  of  her  person.  Gordon  recalled  the  cob 
webby  garment  on  the  bed.  He  made  an  involun 
tary  step  toward  her,  and  she  drew  back  into  the 
room  .  .  .  the  night  was  breathlessly  still.  If  he 
took  another  step  forward,  he  wondered,  would  she 
still  retreat?  Somewhere  in  the  dark  interior  he 
would  come  close  to  her. 

"Good  night."  Her  level,  impersonal  voice  was 
like  a  breath  of  cold  air  upon  his  face. 

"Good  night,"  he  returned  hastily.  "I  got  turned 
right  around."  His  departure  over  the  gallery  was 
not  unlike  a  flight. 


[1811 


VII 

THE  memory  of  Met  a  Beggs  was  woven  like  a 
bright  thread  through  the  monotonous  tex 
ture  of  the  days  which  immediately  fol 
lowed.     She  was  never  entirely  out  of  his  thoughts ; 
she  stirred  him  out  of  all  proportion  to  any  assign 
able  cause;  she  irritated  him.     He  remembered  that 
she  said  she  made  men  "mad."     He  recalled  how 
ridiculous  he  had  felt  as  he  had  said,  "Good  night." 
He  wished  to  repay  her  for  that  injury  to  his  self- 
esteem. 

At  the  same  time,  curiously,  he  was  more  patient 
with  Lettice,  he  had  a  more  ready  sympathy  for  her 
intangible  fancies.  Perhaps  for  the  first  time  he 
enjoyed  sitting  quietly  on  the  porch  of  his  house 
with  her  and  General  Jackson.  He  sat  answering 
her  endless  queries,  fears,  assenting  half-absently 
to  her  projections,  with  the  thought  of  Meta  Beggs 
at  the  back  of  his  mind.  He  wanted  to  be  as  nice 
as  possible  to  Lettice.  Suddenly  she  seemed  a  little 
removed  from  him,  from  the  world  in  general,  the 
world  of  the  emotions  and  ideas  that  centered  about 
the  school-teacher. 

[182] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

Lattice  was — superior;  he  recognized  it  pride- 
fully.  Behind  her  temporary,  rational  vagaries 
there  was  a  quality  of  steadfastness.  It  was  clear 
to  him  now  from  its  contrast  to  his  own  devious 
mind.  But  he  found  a  sharp  pleasure  in  the  mental 
image  of  the  Beggs  woman.  He  recalled  the  burn 
ing  sensation  that  had  lingered  in  his  palm  from  the 
touch  of  her  hand,  the  pressure  of  her  shoulder 
against  his  as  they  had  drawn  back  from  the  vision 
of  those  below. 

He  went  early  to  the  camp  meeting  on  the  Satur 
day  appointed. 


[183] 


VIII 

HE  drove  over  the  road  that  lay  at  the  base 
of  the  western  range  away  from  his  dwell 
ing  and  Greenstream  village.  The  ma 
ture  spring  day  had  almost  the  appearance  of  sum 
mer;  the  valley  was  flooded  with  sparkling  sunlight; 
but  the  young  leaves  were  still  red,  the  greenery  still 
translucent,  the  trees  black  with  risen  sap.  The 
buggy  rolled  through  the  shallow,  rocky  fords,  the 
horse's  hoofs  flinging  up  the  water  in  shining  drops. 
The  road  rose  slightly,  turning  to  the  right,  where  an 
intermediate  valley  lay  diagonally  through  the  range. 
Save  for  small,  scattered  farms  the  bottomland  was 
uncultivated,  the  tangled  brush  impenetrable. 

Gordon  passed  other  vehicles,  bound  toward  the 
camp  meeting,  usually  a  single  seat  crowded  with 
three,  or  even  four,  adult  forms.  He  passed  flat 
wagons  with  their  bottoms  filled  with  straw,  on 
which  women  sat  with  stiffly-extended  legs.  The 
young  women  wore  gay  colors,  their  eyes  sparkled 
in  hardy  faces,  their  hands,  broad  and  red  and  ca 
pable,  awkwardly  disposed.  The  older  women, 
with  shawls  folded  about  their  stooped  shoulders, 

[184] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

were  close-lipped,  somber.  The  men  were  sparely 
built,  with  high,  prominent  cheek  bones,  long,  hol 
low  cheeks  and  shaven  mouths  touched  with  sardonic 
humor,  under  undented,  black  felt  hats.  There  were 
an  appreciable  number  of  invalids  and  leaden-faced 
idiots. 

The  way  grew  wilder,  the  natural  forms  shrunk, 
the  valley  became  a  small  plain  of  broken,  rocky 
hillocks  matted  with  thorny  bushes,  surrounded  by 
marshes  of  rank  grass,  flags,  half-grown  osiers. 
The  vehicles,  drawn  into  a  single  way,  crowded  to 
gether,  progressed  slowly.  Gordon  saw  in  the  back 
of  the  buggy  before  him  two  whiskey  jugs.  Some 
one  far  ahead  began  to  sing  a  revival  hymn,  and  it 
ran  along  the  line  of  carriages  like  a  trail  of  ignited 
powder.  A  deep  bass  caught  it  behind  Gordon 
Makimmon,  then  the  piercing  soprano  of  a  woman 
farther  back. 

The  camp  meeting  spread  over  a  small,  irregular 
plateau  surrounded  by  swamp  and  sluggish  streams. 
Gordon  turned  off  the  road,  and  drove  over  a  rough, 
short  descent  to  a  ledge  of  solid  ground  by  a  stream 
and  fringe  of  willows.  The  spring  torrents  had 
subsided,  leaving  the  grass,  the  willows,  covered 
with  a  grey,  crackling  coat  of  mud;  the  air  had  a 
damp,  fetid  Sxiiell;  beyond,  the  swamp  bubbled  gas- 
eously.  The  close  line  of  hitched  teams  disap 
peared  about  an  elbow  of  the  thicket;  groups  of  men 

[185] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

gathered  in  the  noisome  shadows,  bottles  were 
passed,  heads  thrown  back  and  arms  bent  aloft. 

Above,  a  great,  sagging  tent  was  staked  to  the 
obdurate  ground.  To  the  left  a  wooden  floor  had 
been  temporarily  laid  about  a  four-square,  open 
counter,  now  bare,  with  a  locked  shed  for  storage. 
Before  Gordon  was  the  sleeping  tent  for  women. 
The  sun  seemed  unable  to  dispel  the  miasma  of  the 
swamp,  the  surrounding  aspect  of  mean  desolation. 
The  scene  was  petty,  depressing.  It  was  surcharged 
by  a  curious  air  of  tension,  of  suspense,  a  brooding, 
treacherous  hysteria,  an  ugly,  raw,  emotional  men 
ace.  A  service  was  in  progress ;  a  sustained,  convul 
sive  murmur  came  from  within,  a  wordless,  fluctuat 
ing  lament.  Suddenly  it  was  pierced  by  a  shrill, 
high  scream,  a  voice  tormented  out  of  all  semblance 
to  reason.  The  sound  grew  deeper  and  louder; 
it  swung  into  a  rhythm  which  formed  into  words, 
lines,  a  primitive  chant  that  filled  the  plateau, 
swelled  out  over  the  swamp.  It  continued  for  an 
incredible  length  of  time,  rising  to  an  unbearable 
pitch,  then  it  died  away  in  a  great  gasp. 

A  thin,  sinister  echo  rose  from  among  the  wil 
lows — emotional,  shrill  curses,  a  brief,  raving  out 
burst  of  passion,  sharply  punctuated  with  double 
shots,  and  falling  abruptly  to  heavy  silence.  Gor 
don  saw  men  obscurely  running  below. 

The  curtained  entrance  to  the  tent  was  pushed 
[186] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

aside,  and  a  woman  walked  stiffly  out,  her  hands 
clenched,  and  her  glassy  eyes  set  in  a  fixed  stare. 
Her  hat  was  gone,  and  her  grey  hair  lay  upon  one 
shoulder.  She  progressed,  stumbling  blindly  over 
the  inequalities  of  the  ground,  until  she  tripped  on  a 
stone.  She  lay  where  she  had  fallen,  with  her  mus 
cles  jerking  and  shuddering,  until  a  man  appeared 
from  behind  the  counter,  and  dragged  her  uncere 
moniously  to  the  women's  shelter. 

Gordon  entered  the  tent  where  the  service  was  in 
progress.  A  subdued  light  filtered  through  the  can 
vas  upon  a  horde  that  filled  every  foot  of  space; 
they  sat  pressed  together  on  long,  rough  boards 
nailed  together  in  the  semblance  of  benches.  On  a 
platform  at  the  farther  side  a  row  of  men  and  women 
sat  against  the  canvas  wall;  to  their  left  a  folding 
organ  had  been  erected,  and  was  presided  over  by 
a  man  with  a  blurred,  greyish  countenance;  while, 
standing  at  the  forefront  of  the  platform,  a  large, 
heavy  man  in  a  black  frock  coat  was  addressing  the 
assemblage.  He  had  a  round,  pallid,  smooth  face 
with  long,  black  hair  brushed  back  upon  his  coat 
collar,  and  great,  soft,  white  hands. 

".  .  .  it's  rising,"  he  proclaimed,  in  a  loud,  sing 
song  voice,  "the  flood  is  rising;  now  it's  about  your 
pockets — praise  God!  now  it's  above  your  waists. 
It's  rising!  it's  rising!  Hallelujah!  the  sea  of  re 
demption  is  rising,"  his  voice  rose  with  the  figurative 

[187] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

flood.  "At  last  it's  about  your  hearts,  your  hearts 
are  immersed  in  the  Sacred  Tide." 

A  man  beside  Gordon  groaned  and  dropped  upon 
his  knees.  A  woman  cried,  "God!  God!  God!" 
A  spindling,  overgrown  boy  rose  fumbling  at  his 
throat.  "I  can't  breathe,"  he  choked,  "I  can't—" 
His  face  grew  purplish,  congested.  The  tumult 
swelled,  directed,  dominated,  by  the  voice  of  the 
revivalist.  He  dropped  upon  his  knees,  and,  amid 
the  sobbing  silence,  pled  with  an  invisible  Judge 
hovering,  apparently,  over  a  decision  to  destroy  at 
one  bloody  blow  the  recalcitrant  peoples  of  the 
earth,  the  peoples  of  His  making. 

"Spare  us,"  he  implored;  "spare  us,  the  sheep 
of  hell;  lead  us  to  Thy  shining  pasture  .  .  .  still 
water;  lead  us  from  the  great  fire  of  the  eternal  pit, 
from  the  boiling  bodies  of  the  unsaved  .  .  ." 

Gordon  Makimmon  indifferently  regarded  the 
clamor.  The  process  of  "getting  religion"  was  fa 
miliar,  commonplace.  He  saw  Tol'able  sitting  on 
a  back  bench;  with  a  mutual  gesture  the  two  men 
rose  and  left  the  tent. 

"I  had  to  bring  m'wife,"  Tol'able  explained; 
"did  you  see  her  sitting  on  the  platform?  She's 
one  of  the  main  grievers.  I  got  some  good  licker 
in  the  wagon — better  have  a  comforter." 

They  walked  down  to  a  dusty,  two-seated  surrey, 
where,  from  under  a  horse  blanket,  Tol'able  pro- 

[188] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

duced  a  small  jug.  He  wiped  the  mouth  on  his 
sleeve  and  passed  it  to  Gordon;  then  held  the  gur 
gling  vessel  to  his  open  throat.  "There  was  some 
hell  raised  last  night,"  he  proceeded;  "a  man  from 
up  back  had  his  head  busted  with  a  stone,  and  a 
drunken  looney  shot  through  the  women's  tent:  an 
old  girl  hollered  out  they  had  Goddy  right  in  there 
among  'em." 

"They  were  shooting  a  while  back,"  Gordon  ob 
served  indifferently.  "Have  you  seen  Buck  Sim 
mons  here?" 

"No,  I  hain't.     He  wouldn't  be  here  noways." 

Gordon  preserved  a  discreet  silence  in  regard  to 
his  source  of  assurance  of  Buckley's  presence  at  the 
camp  meeting. 

"Have  another  drink,  Gord." 

The  services  were  temporarily  suspended,  and  the 
throng  emptied  from  the  tent.  A  renewed  sanity 
clothed  them — girls  drew  into  squares  of  giggling 
defense  against  the  verbal  sallies  of  robustly-witted 
young  men.  Women  collected  their  offspring,  gath 
ering  in  circles  about  opened  boxes  of  lunch :  a  mul 
titude  of  papers  and  box  lids  littered  the  ground. 
A  hot,  steaming  odor,  analogous  to  coffee,  rose  from 
the  crowded  counter.  A  prodigious  amount  of  raw 
whiskey  was  consumed  among  the  vehicles  by  the 
stream  and  mud-coated  willows. 

Gordon  slowly  made  his  way  through  the  throng, 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

in  search  of  Meta  Beggs ;  perhaps,  after  all,  she  had 
decided  not  to  come;  he  might  easily  miss  her  in 
that  mob.  It  was  not  clear  in  his  mind  what  he 
would  do  if  he  saw  her.  She  would  be  with  Buckley 
Simmons,  and  there  was  a  well  recognized  course  of 
propriety  for  such  occasions:  he  would  be  expected 
merely  to  greet  in  passing  a  girl  accompanying 
another  man.  Any  other  proceeding  would  be  met 
with  instant  resentment.  And  Buckley  Simmons, 
Gordon  knew,  must  still  nurse  a  secret  antagonism 
toward  him.  However,  he  had  disposed  of  Buckley 
in  the  past  ...  if  necessary  he  could  do  so  again. 
At  the  entrance  to  the  service  tent  the  organist, 
his  countenance  still  livid  in  the  sunlight,  blew  a 
throaty  summons  on  a  cornet,  and  the  crowd  slowly 
trailed  back  within.  In  the  thinning  groups  Gor 
don  saw  the  school-teacher,  clad  in  a  bright  blue 
skirt  and  a  hat  with  a  stiff,  blue  feather.  She  was 
at  Buckley's  side,  consuming  a  slice  of  cake  with 
delicate,  precise  motions  of  her  hand,  and  greeting 
with  patent  abstraction  his  solicitous  attentions. 


[190] 


IX 

META  BEGGS  saw  Gordon  at  the  same 
moment;  and,  without  observation  on  the 
part  of  her  escort,  beckoned  him  to  her. 
She  said  promptly: 

"Mr.  Makimmon,  please  take  care  of  me  while 
Buckley  goes  down  by  those  carriages,  where  we 
saw  you  a  little  while  ago,  and  gets  his  share  of  the 
refreshment  there.  I'm  certain  that  dusty  road 
made  him  as  dry  as  possible." 

Buckley  grinned;  such  frank  feminine  acknowl 
edgment  and  solicitude  for  the  masculine  palate  was 
rare  in  Greenstream.  "Why,  no,  Miss  Beggs,"  he 
rejoined;  "I'm  in  good  shape  for  a  while  yet.  I 
got  a  flask  under  the  seat  of  the  buggy — " 

"I  insist  on  your  tending  to  it  at  once.  I  know 
just  how  it  is  with  men — they  have  got  to  have  that 
little  refreshment  .  .  .  don't  you  call  it  'life  pre 
server'  ?  I'll  be  right  by  the  counter ;  if  Mr.  Makim 
mon  will  be  so  kind — " 

"Well,"  Buckley  agreed,  "a  drink  don't  go  bad 
any  time ;  the  road  was  kind  of  dusty.  If  you  in 
sist,  Miss  Beggs." 

[191] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

"I  do !  I  do  1 "  He  turned  and  left  them,  strid 
ing  toward  the  lower  level.  Then : 

"The  fool!"  she  exclaimed  viciously;  "my  arm 
is  all  black  and  blue  where  he  pinched  it.  My  skin 
is  not  like  the  hides  on  these  mountain  girls,  it  tears 
and  bruises  dreadfully  easy,  it's  so  fine.  Let's  go 
back  there,"  she  pointed  to  where,  behind  the  plat 
form  and  counter,  a  path  was  trampled  through 
brush  higher  than  their  heads,  Gordon  glanced 
swiftly  in  the  direction  in  which  Buckley  Simmons 
had  vanished.  "He  won't  be  back,"  she  added  con 
temptuously,  "for  a  half  hour.  He'll  stay  down 
there  and  drink  rotten  whiskey  and  sputter  over  rot 
ten  stories."  Without  further  parley  she  proceeded 
in  the  direction  indicated ;  and,  following  her,  Gor 
don  dismissed  Buckley  from  his  thoughts. 

Meta  Beggs  wore  a  shirtwaist  perforated  like  a 
sieve;  through  it  he  saw  flimsy  lace,  a  faded  blue 
ribband,  her  gleaming  shoulders.  In  an  obscure 
turn  of  the  path  she  stopped  and  faced  him.  "Just 
look,"  she  proclaimed,  unfastening  a  bone  button 
that  held  her  cuff.  She  rolled  her  sleeve  back  over 
her  arm.  High  up,  near  the  soft  under-turning, 
were  visible  the  bluish  prints  of  fingers.  "You 
see,"  she  added;  "and  there  are  others  .  .  .  where 
I  can't  show  you." 

"Buck's  pretty  vigorous  with  the  girls,"  he  ad 
mitted;  "I  once  dropped  him  down  a  spell  for  it." 

[192] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

He  was  fascinated  by  her  naked,  shapely  arm;  it  was 
slender  at  the  wrist,  and  surprisingly  round  above,  at 
a  soft,  brown  shadow.  He  was  seized  by  a  desire 
to  touch  it,  and  he  held  her  pointed  elbow  while  he 
examined  the  bruises  more  minutely.  "That's  bad," 
he  pronounced;  "on  that  pretty  skin,  too."  He  was 
confused  by  the  close  proximity  of  her  bare  flesh,  the 
pulse  in  his  neck  beat  visibly. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  motionless ;  then,  with  her 
eyes  half  closed,  sulky,  she  drew  away  from  him  and 
rearranged  her  sleeve. 

The  brush  ended  on  a  slope  where  pine  trees  had 
covered  the  ground  with  a  glossy  mat  of  bronzed 
needles;  and  his  companion  sank  to  a  sitting  posi 
tion  with  her  back  against  a  trunk.  They  were  out 
side  the  influence  of  the  camp  meeting,  beyond  its 
unnatural  excitation.  The  pine  trees  were  black 
against  the  brilliant  day;  they  might  have  been  cast 
in  iron,  there  was  no  suggestion  of  growth  in  the 
dun  covering  below ;  it  was  as  seasonless  where  they 
sat  as  the  sea ;  the  air,  faintly  spiced  and  still,  seemed 
to  have  lain  unchanged  through  countless  ages. 

Meta  Beggs  sat  motionless,  with  a  look  of  in 
expressible  boredom  on  her  pale  countenance.  Her 
hands,  Gordon  thought,  were  like  folded  buds  of  the 
mountain  magnolia. 

She  said,  unexpectedly,  "You're  rich  now,  aren't 
you,  one  of  the  richest  men  in  the  county?" 

[193] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

"Why  I — I  got  some  money;  that  is,  my  wife 
has." 

She  dismissed,  with  an  impatient  gesture,  the  dis 
tinction.  "Money  is  life,"  she  continued,  with  a 
perceptible,  envious  longing,  "it's  freedom,  all  the 
things  worth  having.  It  makes  women — it's  their 
leather  boxes  full  of  rings  and  pins  and  necklaces, 
their  dresses  of  all-over  lace,  their  silk  and  hand 
scalloped  and  embroidered  underclothes;  it's  their 
fascination  and  chance  and  power — " 

"I  would  like  to  see  you  in  some  of  those  lace 
things,"  he  returned. 

"Well,  get  them  for  me,"  she  answered  hardily. 

Utterly  unprepared  for  this  direct  attack  he  was 
thoroughly  disconcerted.  "Why,  certainly!"  he  re 
plied,  laboriously  polite,  "the  next  time — I'll  do  it! 
— when  I'm  in  Stenton  again  I'll  bring  you  a  pair 
of  silk  stockings." 

"Black,"  she  said  practically,  "and  size  eight 
and  a  half.  You  will  like  me  in  black  silk  stock 
ings,"  she  added  enigmatically. 

"I'll  bet,"  he  replied  with  enthusiasm.  "I  won't 
wait  to  go,  but  send  for  them.  You  would  make 
the  dollars  dance.  You  are  different  from — "  he 
was  going  to  say  Lettice,  but,  instinctively,  he 
changed  it  to,  "the  women  around  here.  You've 
got  an  awful  lot  of  ginger  to  you." 

"I  know  what  I  want,  and  I'm  not  afraid  to  pay 
[194] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

for  it.  Almost  everybody  wants  the  same  thing — 
plenty  and  pleasure,  but  they're  afraid  of  the  price; 
they  are  afraid  of  it  alive  and  when  they  will  be 
dead.  Women  set  such  a  store  on  what  they  call 
their  virtue,  and  men  tend  so  much  to  the  opinion 
of  others,  that  they  don't  get  anywhere.'' 

"Don't  you  set  anything  on  your — your  virtue ?" 

"I'd  make  it  serve  me;  I  wouldn't  be  a  silly  slave 
to  it  all  my  life.  If  I  can  get  things  with  it  that's 
what  I'm  going  to  do." 

Gordon  Makimmon  found  these  potent  words 
from  such  a  pleasing  woman  as  Meta  Beggs.  Any 
philosophy  underlying  them,  any  ruthless  strength, 
escaped  him  entirely.  They  appealed  solely  to  him 
as  "gay,"  highly  suggestive.  They  stirred  his  blood 
into  warm,  heady  tides  of  feeling.  He  moved  over 
the  smooth  covering  of  pine  needles,  closer  to  her. 
But  with  an  expression  of  petulance  she  rose. 

"I  suppose  we  must  look  for  Buckley,"  she  ob 
served.  Gordon  had  completely  forgotten  Buck 
ley  Simmons'  presence  at  the  camp  meeting.  The 
school-teacher,  swaying  slimly,  led  the  way  over  the 
path  to  the  plateau. 

They  saw  Buckley  Simmons  at  once:  he  was 
talking  in  an  excited,  angry  manner  to  a  small  group 
of  men.  A  gesture  was  made  toward  Gordon  and 
his  companion;  Buckley  turned,  and  his  face  flushed 
darkly.  Gordon  stood  still,  Meta  Peggs  fell  be^ 

[195] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

hind,  as  the  former  made  his  way  toward  them. 
Buckley  spoke  loudly  when  he  was  still  an  appreci 
able  distance  away: 

"You  were  mighty  considerate  about  my  dusty 
throat,"  he  began  with  heavy  sarcasm;  "I  ought  to 
have  seen  at  the  time  that  you  had  it  made  up  be 
tween  you.  This  is  the  second  time  that  you  have 
broken  in  on  me,  Makimmon.  I'm  not  a  boy  any 
longer.  You  can't  tread  on  me.  It's  going  to  stop 


now." 


"There's  nothing  for  you  to  get  excited  about, 
Buck.  Miss  Beggs  and  I  took  a  little  stroll  while 
you  were  away." 

"A  'little  stroll.'  "  Buckley  produced  a  heavy 
gold  watch,  the  highly  chased  cover  of  which  he 
snapped  back.  "Over  half  an  hour,"  he  pro 
claimed;  "you  stayed  too  long  this  time." 

Gordon  was  aware  of  a  form  at  his  back.  He 
turned,  and  saw  Tol'able. 

"What's  the  trouble,  Gord?"  the  latter  asked. 
Two  or  three  others  were  compactly  grouped  behind 
him. 

"Why,  Buckley's  hot  because  I  walked  with  Miss 
Beggs  while  he  took  a  drink." 

The  men  about  Buckley  Simmons  closed  up. 
"Don't  let  Gordon  crowd  you  down,"  they  advised 
their  principal;  "put  it  up  against  him." 

[196] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"Haven't  you  got  enough  at  home,"  Buckley  de 
manded,  "without  playing  around  here?" 

Anger  swiftly  rose  to  Gordon  Makimmon's  head. 
His  hand  fell  and  remained  close  by  his  side. 
"Keep  your  tongue  off  my  home,"  he  commanded 
harshly,  "or  you  will  get  more  than  a  horsewhip 
ping." 

"By  God,"  Buckley  articulated.  His  face 
changed  from  dark  to  pale,  his  mouth  opened,  his 
eyes  were  staring.  He  fumbled  desperately  in  his 
pocket.  Gordon's  hand  closed  smoothly,  instantly, 
about  the  handle  of  his  revolver.  But,  before  he 
could  level  it,  an  arm  shout  out  from  behind  him, 
and  a  stone  the  size  of  two  fists  sped  like  a  bullet, 
striking  Buckley  Simmons  where  his  hair  and  fore 
head  joined.  Gordon,  in  a  species  of  shocked  curi 
osity  and  surprise,  clearly  saw  the  stone  hit  the 
other.  There  was  a  sound  like  that  made  by  a  heel 
breaking  a  scum  of  ice  on  a  frozen  road. 

Buckley  said,  "Ah,"  half  turned,  and  dropped  like 
a  piece  of  carpet. 

The  belligerent  attitude  instantly  evaporated 
from  the  group  behind  the  stricken  man.  "Gra 
cious,"  some  one  muttered  foolishly.  They  all 
joined  in  a  stooping  circle  about  the  prostrate  figure. 
It  was  seen  immediately  that  the  skull  was  broken — 
a  white  splinter  of  bone  stood  up  from  a  matted 

[197] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

surface  of  blood  and  hair  and  dirt.  Buckley's  eye 
lids  winked  continuously  and  with  great  rapidity. 

A  mingled  concern  and  deep  relief  swept  through 
Gordon  Makimmon.  He  knew  that,  had  the  stone 
not  been  thrown,  he  would  have  killed  Buckley  Sim 
mons.  He  wondered  if  Tol'able  had  done  him  that 
act  of  loyalty.  It  had,  probably,  fatally  wounded 
its  object.  He  turned  with  a  swift,  silent  look  of 
inquiry  to  Tol'able.  The  other,  unmoved,  dexter 
ously  shifted  a  mouthful  of  tobacco.  "Whoever 
did  that,"  he  observed,  "could  sure  throw  a  rock." 

A  crowd  gathered  swiftly,  cautious  and  murmur 
ing.  Simmons  was  lifted  on  a  horse  blanket  to  the 
flooring  by  the  counter.  There  was  an  outcry  for  a 
doctor,  but  none  was  present,  and  it  was  agreed  that 
the  wounded  man  must  be  hurried  into  Greenstream. 
"He  won't  get  there  alive,"  it  was  freely  predicted; 
"the  top  of  his  head  is  crumbled  right  off." 


[198] 


X 

GORDON  found  Meta  Beggs  on  the  outskirt 
of  the  throng;  she  was  pale  but  otherwise 
unshaken.  "I  was  sure  you  were  going  to 
shoot  Buckley,"  she  told  him. 

"So  was  I,"  he  returned  grimly. 

"Will  he  die?" 

"It  looks  bad — his  head's  cracked.  You  didn't 
see  anybody  throw  that  stone!"  His  voice  had 
more  the  accent  of  a  command  than  an  inquiry. 

"I  really  didn't;  the  men  were  standing  so  closely 
...  nobody  saw." 

"That's  good.  You'll  drive  home  with  me,  for 
certain." 

"I'm  glad  you  didn't  kill  him,"  she  confided  to 
Gordon  in  the  buggy.  She  was  sitting  very  close  to 
him.  "It  would  have — upset  things." 

"I  don't  believe  you  were  a  scrap  frightened,"  he 
asserted  admiringly. 

"I  wasn't.  I  thought  how  foolish  you  would  be 
to  spoil  everything  for  yourself." 

"I  would  have  gone  into  the  mountains,"  he  ex 
plained;  "a  hundred  men  would  have  kept  the  law 

[199] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

off  me.  I  was  a  year  and  a  half  there,  when — 
when  I  was  younger,"  he  ended  lamely. 

"I  like  that,"  she  replied,  "I  understand  it.  I've 
wanted  to  murder;  but  it  would  have  been  silly,  I 
would  have  had  to  pay  too  dearly  for  a  passing 
rage."  There  was  a  menace  in  her  even  voice,  a 
cold  echo  like  that  from  a  closed,  empty  room,  that 
oppressed  Gordon  unpleasantly. 

"I  guess  you're  not  as  dangerous  as  that,"  he  re 
sponded,  more  lightly.  He  wondered,  unable  to  de 
cide,  if  she  were  consciously  pressing  her  body 
against  him,  or  if  it  were  merely  the  jolting  of  the 
buggy?  They  were  passing  through  the  valley  that 
led  into  Greenstream;  the  sun  was  lowering  behind 
them,  the  shadows  creeping  out.  They  dropped 
from  the  rough,  minor  forms  into  the  bigger  sweep 
— it  was  like  a  great,  green  bed  half  filled  with  a 
gold  flood.  Gordon's  horse  walked,  and,  in  their 
slow  progress,  the  stream  of  light  flowing  between  the 
ranges  changed  to  a  stream  of  shadow.  A  miracu 
lous  pink  rose  opened  in  the  east  and  scattered  its 
glowing  petals  across  the  sky.  The  buggy  wound, 
like  an  infinitesimal  toy,  over  the  darkening  road. 

He  passed  his  dwelling,  a  long,  irregular  roof 
against  the  veiled  surface  of  the  stream;  a  light 
shone  from  the  kitchen  window.  The  streets  of  the 
village,  folded  in  warm  dusk,  were  empty ;  the  white 
columns  of  the  Courthouse  glimmered  behind  the 

[200] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

laid  it  on  the  indistinct  bed,  and  moved  to  the  mirror 
of  a  small  bureau,  where  her  hands  glided  over  her 
smooth  hair. 

"Men  are  so — elementary,"  she  observed,  "and  all 
alike.  I  wish  I  could  feel  what  you  do,"  she  turned 
to  Gordon,  "just  once." 

"What  are  you  made  of?"  he  demanded  tensely; 
"stone?"' 

"I  often  wonder." 

She  crossed  the  room  to  the  gallery,  where  she 
glanced  swiftly  about.  "You  must  leave,  and  I'll 
go  down  to  supper.  Next  Sunday  I  am  going  to 
walk  ...  in  the  morning." 

"If  you  go  out  by  the  priest's,"  he  suggested,  "and 
turn  to  the  right,  you  will  find  a  pretty  stream; 
further  down  there's  an  old  mill." 

She  drew  back,  waiting  for  him  to  descend  to  the 
ground  below. 

Simmons'  clerk  was  standing  on  the  platform  be 
fore  the  store,  and  Gordon  drew  up.  "How's  Buck 
ley?"  he  inquired. 

"Bad,"  the  other  answered  laconically.  "They 
sent  to  Stenton  for  help.  His  head's  cracked.  It's 
funny,"  he  commented,  "with  a  hundred  people 
around  nobody  saw  that  stone  thrown  'tall." 

"It  don't  do  sometimes  to  see  this  and  that,"  Gor 
don  explained,  tightening  the  reins. 

He  unhitched  the  horse  in  his  shed-like  stable 
[202] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

by  the  aid  of  a  hand  lantern.  He  was  reluctant  to 
go  into  the  house,  and  he  prolonged  the  unbuckling 
of  the  familiar  straps,  the  measuring  of  feed,  beyond 
all  necessity.  Outside,  he  thought  he  heard  Gen 
eral  Jackson  by  the  stream,  and  he  stood  whistling 
softly,  but  only  the  first  notes  of  the  whippoorwills 
responded.  "The  night's  just  come  down  all  at 
once,"  he  said.  Finally,  with  a  rigid  assumption 
of  indifference  covering  an  uneasy  heart,  he  went  in. 

Lettice  was  asleep  by  the  lamp  in  the  sitting  room. 
She  looked  younger  than  ever,  but  there  were  shad 
ows  under  her  eyes,  her  mouth  was  a  little  drawn  as 
if  by  the  memory  of  pain.  A  shawl,  he  saw,  had 
slipped  from  her  shoulders,  and  he  walked  clumsily 
on  the  tips  of  his  shoes  and  rearranged  it.  Then  he 
sat  down  and  waited  for  her  to  wake. 

The  flame  of  the  lamp  was  like  a  section  of  an 
orange;  it  cast  a  warm,  low  radiance  through  the 
room.  His  gaze  rested  on  the  photograph  of  Let- 
tice's  mother  in  her  coffin.  He  imagined  that  paper 
effigy  of  inanimate  clay  moved,  turned  its  dull  head 
to  regard  him.  "I'm  getting  old,"  he  told  himself 
contemptuously,  repressing  an  involuntary  start  of 
surprise.  His  heart  rested  like  a  lump  of  lead  in 
his  breast;  it  oppressed  him  so  that  his  breathing 
grew  labored.  His  mind  returned  to  Meta  Beggs: 
coldness  like  hers  was  not  natural,  it  was  not  right. 
He  thought  again,  as  men  have  vainly  of  such 

[203] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

women  since  the  dawning  of  consciousness,  that  it 
would  be  stirring  to  fire  her  indifference,  to  ignite  a 
passion  in  response  to  his  own  desire.  The  mem 
ory  of  her  slender,  full  body,  her  cool  lips,  tor 
mented  him. 

Lettice  woke  abruptly. 

"Gordon!"  she  cried,  in  an  odd,  muffled  voice; 
"you're  always  late;  your  supper  is  always  spoiled." 

"I  had  my  supper,"  he  hurriedly  fabricated,  "at 
Peterman's.  It's  nice  in  here,  Lettice,  with  you  and 
all  the  things  around.  It  has  a  comfortable  look. 
You're  right  pretty,  Lettice,  too." 

The  unexpected  compliment  brought  a  flush  to  her 
cheeks.  "I'm  not  pretty  now,"  she  replied;  "I'm 
all  pulled  out."  General  Jackson  ambled  into  the 
room,  sat  between  them.  "Let's  hear  the  General 
sing,"  she  proposed. 

Gordon  wound  the  phonograph,  and  the  distant, 
metallic  voice  repeated  the  undeniable  fact  that  Rip 
Van  Winkle  had  been  unaware  of  the  select  pleas 
ures  of  Coney  Island.  The  dog  whimpered,  then 
raised  his  head  in  a  despairing  bay. 

A  time  might  come  in  a  man's  life,  Gordon  Ma- 
kimmon  realized,  when  this  peaceful  interior  would 
spell  complete  happiness. 


[204] 


XI 

ON  Sunday  he  strolled  soon  after  breakfast 
in  the  direction  of  the  priest's.  Merlier 
was  standing  at  the  door  to  his  house. 
Gordon  noted  that  the  other  was  growing  heavier, 
folds  dropped  from  the  corners  of  his  shaven  lips, 
his  eyes  had  retreated  in  fatty  pouches.  His  gaze 
was  still  searchingly  keen,  but  the  priest  was  wear 
ing  out.  Gordon  stopped  in  response  to  his  silent 
nod. 

"You  ought  to  let  up  on  yourself  a  little,"  he  ad 
vised. 

"Why?"  the  other  briefly  queried. 

"  'Why?',  so's  you  will  last  longer." 

To  this  the  priest  made  no  reply.  A  short,  awk 
ward  silence  followed  during  which  Gordon  grew 
restive.  "If  I  looked  so  glum  about  Greenstream," 
he  continued,  "I'd  move  out."  It  was  as  though  he 
had  not  spoken.  "I'd  go  back  where  I  came  from," 
he  persisted  sharply.  The  priest's  lips  moved, 
formed  words: 

"  'Che  discese  da  Fiesole  ab  antico.'  " 

His  imperturbable  manner  offered  Gordon  not  the 
[205] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

slightest  opening;  and  he  continued  uncomfortably 
on  his  way.  There  was  a  quality  about  that  thick, 
black-clad  figure  which  cast  a  shadow  over  the 
cloudless  day,  it  blunted  the  anticipated  pleasure  of 
his  meeting  with  Meta  Beggs.  There  was  about 
Merlier  a  smell  of  death  like  the  smell  of  sooty 
smoke. 

The  stream  lay  shining  along  its  wooded  course; 
the  range  greenly  aflame  with  new  foliage  rose  into 
radiant  space;  flickers  hammered  on  resonant,  dead 
wood.  Gordon  banished  the  somber  memory  of  the 
priest.  He  was  conscious  of  a  sudden  excitement, 
a  keenness  of  response  to  living  like  a  renewal  of 
youth.  He  wished  that  Meta  Beggs  would  appear; 
his  direction  to  her  had  been  vague ;  she  might  easily 
go  astray  and  miss  him.  But  he  saw  her,  after 
what  seemed  an  interminable  period,  leaving  the 
road  and  crossing  the  strip  of  sod  that  bordered  the 
stream.  She  had  on  a  white  dress  that  clung  to  her 
figure,  and  a  broad,  flapping  straw  hat  wound  with 
white.  She  saw  him  and  waved.  The  brush  rose 
thickly  along  the  water,  but  there  was  a  footway  at 
its  edge,  with  occasional,  broader  reaches  of  rough 
sod.  In  one  of  the  latter  she  stooped,  made  a  swift 
movement  with  the  hem  of  her  skirt. 

"See,"  she  smiled;  "I  said  you  would  like  me  in 
them." 

He  attempted  to  catch  her  in  his  arms,  but  she 
[206] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

eluded  him.  "Please,"  she  protested  coolly,  "don't 
be  tiresome.  .  .  .  We  must  talk." 

He  followed  her  by  the  devious  edge  of  the  stream 
to  the  ruined  mill.  He  could  see  the  blurring  im 
press  of  the  black  silk  stockings  through  the  web  of 
her  dress ;  the  dress  had  shrunk  from  repeated  wash 
ing,  and  drew  tightly  across  her  shoulders.  She 
walked  lightly  and  well,  and  sat  with  a  graceful 
sweep  on  a  fallen,  moldering  beam.  Beyond  them 
the  broad  expanse  of  the  mill  pond  was  paved  with 
still  shadows;  a  dust  of  minute  insects  swept  above 
the  clouded  surface.  The  water  ran  slowly  over  the 
dam,  everywhere  cushioned  with  deep  moss,  and  fell 
with  an  eternal  splatter  on  the  rocks  below. 

Gordon  rolled  a  cigarette  from  the  muslin  bag  of 
Green  Goose.  "Why  do  you  still  smoke  that 
grass?"  she  demanded  curiously.  "You  could  get 
the  best  cigars  from  Cuba."  He  explained,  and  she 
regarded  him  impatiently.  "Can't  you  realize  what 
possibilities  you  have!" 

"I  might,  with  assistance." 

"If  you  once  saw  the  world!  I've  been  reading 
about  Paris,  the  avenues  and  cafes  and  theaters. 
Why,  in  the  cafes  there  they  drink  only  champagne 
and  dance  all  night.  The  women  come  with  their 
lovers  in  little  closed  carriages,  and  go  back  to  little 
closed  rooms  hung  in  brocade.  They  never  wear 
anything  but  evening  clothes,  for  they  are  never  out 

[207] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

but  at  night — satin  gowns  with  trains  and  bare 
shoulders." 

He  endeavored  to  picture  himself  in  such  a  city, 
amid  such  a  life,  with  Meta  Beggs.  He  felt  that  she 
would  be  entirely  in  place  in  the  little  carriages, 
drinking  champagne.  "That's  where  they  eat 
frogs,"  he  remarked  inanely.  In  the  tensity  of  her 
feeling,  the  bitterness  of  her  longing,  her  envy,  she 
cursed  him  for  a  dull  fool.  Then,  recovering  her 
composure  with  a  struggle : 

"I  would  make  a  man  drunk  with  pleasure  in  a 
place  like  that.  He  would  be  proud  of  me,  and  all 
the  other  men  would  hate  him;  they  would  all  want 
me." 

"Some  would  come  pretty  near  getting  you,  too," 
he  replied  with  a  flash  of  penetration;  "those  with 
the  fastest  horses  or  longest  pockets." 

"I  would  be  true  to  whoever  took  me  there,"  she 
declared;  "out  of  gratitude." 

He  drew  a  deep  breath.  "What  would  you  say," 
he  inquired,  leaning  toward  her,  "to  a  trip  to — to 
Richmond?  We  could  be  gone  the  best  part  of  a 
week." 

She  laughed  scornfully.  "Do  you  think  I  am  as 
cheap  as  that — to  be  bought  over  Sunday?"  She 
rose,  and  stood  before  him,  sharply  outlined  against 
the  foliage,  the  water,  the  momentary,  flittering  in 
sects,  taunting,  provocative,  sensual. 

[208] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"Five  years  ago,"  he  told  her,  "if  you  had  tried 
this  foolery,  I  would  have  choked  you,  and  thrown 
what  was  left  in  the  dam." 

"And  now — "  she  jeered  fearlessly. 

"It's  different,"  he  admitted  moodily. 

It  was.  Somewhere  the  lash  had  been  lost  from 
the  whip  of  his  desire.  He  was  still  eager,  tor 
mented  by  the  wish  to  feel  her  disdainful  mouth 
against  his.  The  recrudescence  of  spring  burned 
in  his  veins ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  there  was  a  new 
reluctance  upon  his  flesh.  The  inanimate,  obese 
mask  of  the  priest,  Lettice's  sleeping  countenance 
faintly  stamped  with  pain,  hovered  in  his  conscious 
ness.  "It's  different,"  he  repeated. 

"You  are  losing  your  hold  on  pleasure,"  she  ob 
served  critically  aloof. 

He  leaned  forward,  and  grasped  her  wrist,  and, 
with  a  slight  motion,  forced  her  upon  her  knees. 
"If  you  are  pleasure  I'm  not,"  he  challenged. 

"You  are  hurting  my  arm,"  she  said  coldly.  His 
grip  tightened,  and  a  small  grimace  crossed  her  lips. 
"Let  go,"  she  demanded;  and  then  a  swift  passion 
shrilled  her  voice.  "Let  go,  you  are  crushing  my 
wrist.  Damn  you  to  hell!  if  you  spoil  my  wrist 
I'll  kill  you."  ' 

For  a  moment,  as  he  held  her,  she  reminded  Gor 
don  of  a  venomous  snake;  he  had  never  seen  such 
a  lithe,  wicked  hatred  in  any  other  human  being. 

[209] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"You  are  a  gentle  object,"  he  satirized  her,  loosen 
ing  his  hold. 

She  rose  slowly  and  stood  fingering  her  wrist. 
The  emotion  died  from  her  countenance.  "You 
see,"  she  explained,  "my  body  is  all  I  have  to  take 
me  out  of  this,"  she  motioned  to  the  slumbering  wa 
ter,  the  towering  range,  "and  I  can't  afford  to  have  it 
spoiled.  You  wouldn't  like  me  if  I  were  lame  or 
crooked.  Men  don't.  The  religious  squashes  can 
say  all  they  like  about  the  soul,  but  a  woman's  body 
is  the  only  really  important  thing  to  her.  No  one 
bothers  about  your  soul,  but  they  judge  your  figure 
across  the  street." 

"Yours  hasn't  done  you  much  good." 

"It  will,"  she  returned  somberly,  "it  must — real 
lace  and  wine  and  ease."  She  came  very  close  to 
him;  he  could  feel  the  faint  jarring  of  her  heart,  the 
moisture  of  her  breath.  "And  you  could  get  them 
for  me.  I  would  make  you  mad  with  sensation." 

He  kissed  her  again  and  again,  crushing  her  to 
him.  She  abandoned  herself  to  his  arms,  but  she 
was  as  untouched,  as  impersonal,  as  a  stuffed  woman 
of  cool  satin.  In  the  end  he  voluntarily  released 
her. 

"You  wouldn't  take  fire  from  a  pine  knot,"  he 
said  unsteadily. 

Her  deft  hands  rearranged  her  hat.  "Some  day 
a  man  will  murder  me,"  she  replied  in  level  tones; 

[210] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"perhaps  I'll  get  a  thrill  from  that."  Her  voice 
grew  as  cutting  as  a  surgeon's  polished  knife. 
"Please  don't  think  I'm  the  kind  of  woman  men 
take  out  in  the  woods  and  kiss.  You  may  have  dis 
covered  that  I  don't  like  kissing.  I'm  going  to  be 
honester  still — last  year,  when  you  were  mending 
the  minister's  ice  house,  and  hadn't  a  dollar,  I  wasn't 
the  smallest  bit  interested  in  you;  and  this  year  I 
am. — Not  on  account  of  the  money  itself,"  she  was 
careful  to  add,  "but  because  of  you  and  the  money 
together.  Don't  you  see — it  changed  you;  it's  per 
fectly  right  that  it  should,  and  that  I  should  recog 
nize  it." 

"That  sounds  fair  enough,"  he  agreed.  "Now 
the  question  is,  what  are  we  going  to  do  together, 
you  and  me  and  the  money?" 

"Would  you  do  what  I  wanted?"  she  asked  at  his 
shoulder. 

"Would  you?" 

"Yes." 

"We  might  try  Richmond." 

"Don't  fool  yourself,"  she  returned  hardily;  "I 
know  all  about  those  trial  trips.  Any  man  I  go  with 
has  got  to  go  far:  I  don't  intend  to  be  left  at  some 
pokey  little  way  station  with  everything  gone  and 
nothing  accomplished." 

"But,"  he  objected,  "a  man  who  went  with  you 
could  never  come  back." 

[2111 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"Back  to  this  wilderness,"  she  scoffed;  "any  one 
should  thank  God  for  being  taken  out  of  it." 

"I've  always  lived  here,  my  father  too,  and  his 
before  him;  and  back  of  that  we  came  from  moun 
tains.  We're  mountain  blood;  I  don't  know  if  we 
could  get  used  to  anything  else,  live  down  yonder." 

"I'd  civilize  you,"  she  promised  him. 

"Perhaps — "  he  assented  slowly. 

Suddenly  from  beyond  the  ruin  came  the  stir 
of  a  horse  moving  in  harness,  the  sound  stopped 
and  the  voices  of  men  grew  audible.  Instinctively 
Gordon  and  Meta  Beggs  drew  behind  a  standing 
fragment  of  wall.  Gordon  could  see,  through  the 
displaced,  rotting  boards,  a  buggy  and  two  men 
standing  at  the  side  of  the  road.  One,  he  recog 
nized,  was  Valentine  Simmons;  he  easily  made  out 
the  small,  alert  figure.  The  other,  with  his  back  to 
the  mill,  held  outspread  a  sheet  of  paper.  There 
was  something  familiar  about  the  carriage  of  the 
head,  a  glimpse  of  beard,  a  cigar  from  which  were 
expelled  copious  volumes  of  smoke.  Gordon  vainly 
racked  his  memory  for  a  clue  to  the  latter,  elusive 
personality.  He  heard  Simmons  say: 

".  .  .  by  the  South  Fork  entrance  .  .  .  through 
the  valley." 

The  stranger  partially  turned,  and  Gordon  in 
stantly  recalled  where  he  had  seen  him  before — it 
was  the  man  he  had  driven  from  Stenton  with  the 

[212] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

surprising  fore-knowledge  of  the  County,  who  had 
been  met  by  Pompey  Hollidew.  He  replied  to  Sim 
mons,  "Exactly  .  .  .  timber  sidings  at  the  principal 
depots." 

They  were,  evidently,  discussing  a  projected  road. 
Gordon  subconsciously  exclaimed,  half  aloud, 
"Railroad!"  A  swift  illumination  bathed  in  com 
plete  comprehension  the  whole  affair — the  connec 
tion,  of  Simmons,  old  Pompey's  options  and  the 
stranger.  This  railroad,  the  coming  of  which 
would  increase  enormously  the  timber  values  of 
Greenstream  County,  had  been  the  covert  reason 
for  Simmons'  desire  to  purchase  the  options  held  by 
the  Hollidew  estate;  it  had  been,  during  Pompey 
Hollidew's  life,  the  reason  for  the  acquisition  of 
such  extended  timber  interests.  Hollidew,  Simmons 
and  Company  had  joined  in  a  conspiracy  to  purchase 
them  throughout  the  county  at  a  nominal  sum  and 
reap  the  benefits  of  the  large  enhancement.  The 
death  of  the  former  had  interrupted  that  satisfactory 
scheme;  now  Valentine  Simmons  had  conceived  the 
plan  of  gathering  all  the  profit  to  himself.  And, 
Gordon  admitted,  he  had  nearly  succeeded  .  .  . 
nearly.  A  slow  smile  crossed  Gordon  Makimmon's 
features  as  he  realized  what  a  pleasant  conversation 
he  would  have  with  Simmons  at  the  latter's  expense. 
He  had  never  conceived  the  possibility  of  getting 
the  astute  storekeeper  *nto  such  a  satisfactory,  retail- 

[213] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

atory  position.  He  would  extract  the  last  penny  of 
profit  and  enjoyment  from  the  other's  surprise. 

The  men  beyond  re-entered  the  buggy  and  drove 
toward  the  village. 

"What  is  it?"  Meta  Beggs  asked;  "you  look 
pleased." 

"Oh,  I  fell  on  a  little  scheme,"  he  replied  eva 
sively;  "a  trifle  .  .  .  worth  a  hundred  thousand  or 
more  to  me." 

Her  eyes  widened  with  avidity.  "I  didn't  know 
the  whole,  God  forsaken  place  was  worth  a  thou 
sand,"  she  remarked.  "A  hundred  thousand,"  the 
mere  repetition  of  that  sum  brought  a  new  shine  into 
her  gaze,  instinctively  drew  her  closer  to  Gordon's 
side. 

"Just  that  alone  would  be  enough — "  she  said, 
and  paused. 

He  ignored  this  opening  in  the  anticipated  pleas 
ure  of  his  coming  interview  with  Valentine  Simmons. 

A  palpable  annoyance  took  possession  of  her  at 
Gordon's  absorption.  "It  must  be  near  dinner  at 
Peterman's,"  she  remarked;  "on  Sunday  you've  got 
to  be  on  time." 

In  response  to  her  suggestion  he  turned  toward 
the  road.  They  walked  back  silently  until  they 
were  opposite  the  priest's.  "I'd  better  go  on  alone," 
she  decided.  Her  hands  clung  to  his  shoulders  and 
she  sought  his  lips.  "Soon  a'gain,"  she  murmured. 

[214] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"Don't  desert  me;  I  am  entirely  alone  except  for 
you." 

She  left  him  and  swiftly  crossed  the  green  to  the 
road. 


[2151 


XII 

GORDON  carefully  explained  the  entire  cir 
cumstance  of  the  timber  to  Lettice.  "I  just 
happened  to  be  by  the  stream,"  he  contin 
ued,  "and  overheard  them.  Your  father  and  Sim 
mons  evidently  had  arranged  the  thing,  and  Sim 
mons  was  going  to  crowd  you  out  of  all  the  gain." 

"You  see  to  it,"  she  returned  listlessly;  "you  have 
my  name  on  that  paper,  the  power  of  something  or 
other."  She  was  seated  on  the  porch  of  their  dwell 
ing.  A  low-drifting  mass  of  formless  grey  cloud 
filled  the  narrow  opening  of  the  ranges,  drooping 
in  nebulous  veils  of  suspended  moisture  down  to  the 
vivid  green  of  the  valley.  The  mountains  seemed 
to  dissolve  into  the  nothingness  above;  the  stream 
was  unusually  noisy. 

"I  might  see  him  this  evening,"  he  observed; 
"and  I  could  find  out  how  Buck  was  resting." 

"However  did  he  come  to  get  hurt?" 

"I  never  knew  rightly;  there  we  were  all  stand 
ing  with  Buckley  a-talking,  when  the  stone  flew  out 
of  the  crowd  and  hit  him  on  the  head.  Nobody  saw 
who  did  it." 

"I  wish  you  hadn't  been  there,  Gordon.  You 
[216] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

always  seem  to  be  around,  to  get  talked  about,  when 
anything  happens." 

He  saw  that  she  was  irritable,  in  a  mood  for  com 
plaint,  and  he  rose.  "You  mean  Mrs.  Caley  talks 
wherever  I  am,"  he  corrected.  He  left  the  porch 
and  walked  over  the  road  to  the  village.  The  store, 
he  knew,  would  be  closed;  but  Valentine  Simmons, 
an  indefatigable  church  worker,  almost  invariably 
after  the  service  pleasantly  passed  the  remainder  of 
Sunday  in  the  contemplation  and  balancing  of  his 
long  and  satisfactory  accounts  and  assets. 

He  was,  as  Gordon  had  anticipated,  in  the  en 
closed  office  bent  over  his  ledgers.  The  door  to  the 
store  was  unlocked.  Simmons  rose,  and  briefly  ac 
knowledged  Gordon's  presence. 

"I  was  sorry  Buckley  got  hurt,"  the  latter  opened; 
"it  wasn't  any  direct  fault  of  mine.  We  were  hav 
ing  words.  I  don't  deny  but  that  it  might  have  gone 
further  with  us,  but  some  one  else  stepped  in." 

"So  I  was  informed.  Buckley  will  probably  live 
.  .  .  that  is  all  the  Stenton  doctor  will  say;  a  piece 
of  his  skull  has  been  removed.  I  am  not  prepared 
to  discuss  it  right  now  .  .  .  painful  to  me." 

"Certainly.  But  I  didn't  come  to  discuss  that. 
I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  the  timber — those  op 
tions  of  Lettice's." 

"She  doesn't  agree  to  the  deal?"  Simmons  queried 
sharply. 

[217] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"Whatever  I  say  is  good  enough  for  Lettice,"  Gor 
don  replied. 

An  expression  of  relief  settled  over  the  other. 
"The  papers  will  be  ready  this  week,"  he  said.  "I 
have  taken  all  that,  and  some  expense,  off  you. 
You  will  make  a  nice  thing  out  of  it." 

"I  will,"  Gordon  assented  heartily.  "And  that 
reminds  me — I  saw  an  old  acquaintance  of  Pompey 
Hollidew's  in  Greenstream  to-day.  I  don't  know 
his  name ;  I  drove  him  up  in  the  stage,  and  Pompey 
greeted  him  like  a  long-lost  dollar." 

A  veiled,  alert  curiosity  was  plain  on  Simmons's 
smooth,  pinkish  countenance. 

"I  wonder  if  you  know  him  too? — a  man  with 
a  beard,  a  great  hand  for  maps  and  cigars." 

"Well?"  Valentine  Simmons  temporized. 

"Could  he  have  anything  to  do  with  those  timber 
options  of  the  old  man's,  with  your  offer  for  them?" 

"Well?"  Simmons  repeated.  His  face  was  now 
absolutely  blank;  he  sat  turned  from  his  ledgers, 
facing  Gordon,  without  a  tremor. 

"It's  no  use,  Simmons,"  Gordon  Makimmon  ad 
mitted;  "I  was  out  by  the  old  mill  this  morning.  I 
saw  you  both,  heard  something  that  was  said.  That 
railroad  will  do  a  lot  for  values  around  here,  but 
mostly  for  timber." 

Instantly,  and  with  no  wasted  regrets  over  lost 
opportunities,  Simmons  changed  his  tactics  to  meet 

[218] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

existing  conditions.  "Your  wife's  estate  controls 
about  three  thousand  acres  of  timber,"  he  pro 
nounced.  "What  will  you  take  for  them?" 

"How  much  do  you  control?"  Gordon  asked. 

"About  twenty-five  hundred  at  present." 

Gordon  paused,  then,  "Lettice  will  take  thirty  dol 
lars  an  acre." 

"Why!"  the  other  protested,  "Pompey  bought 
them  for  little  or  nothing.  You're  after  over  two 
hundred  per  cent,  increase." 

"What  do  you  figure  to  get  out  of  yours?" 

"That  doesn't  concern  us  now.  I've  had  to  put 
this  through — a  tremendous  thing  for  Greenstream, 
a  lasting  benefit — entirely  by  myself.  I  will  have 
to  guarantee  a  wicked  profit  outside;  I  stand  alone 
to  lose  a  big  sum.  I'll  give  you  ten  dollars  for  the 
options." 

Gordon  rose.  "I'll  see  the  railroad  people  my 
self,"  he  observed;  "and  find  out  what  I  can  do 
there." 

"Hold  on,"  Simmons  waved  him  back  to  his 
chair.  "If  there's  too  much  talk  the  thing  will  get 
out.  You  know  these  thick  skulls  around  here — at 
the  whisper  of  transportation  you  couldn't  cut  a 
sapling  with  a  gold  axe.  It  took  managing  to  inter 
est  the  Tennessee  and  Northern;  they  are  going 
through  to  Buffalo;  a  Greenstream  branch  is  only 
a  side  issue  to  them."  He  paused,  thinking. 

[219] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"There's  no  good,"  he  resumed,  "in  you  and  me  get 
ting  into  each  other.  The  best  thing  we  can  do  is 
to  control  all  the  good  stuff,  agree  on  a  price,  and 
divide  the  take." 

Gordon  carefully  considered  this  new  proposal. 
It  seemed  to  him  palpably  fair.  "All  the  papers 
would  have  to  be  made  together,"  he  added;  "what's 
for  one's  for  the  other." 

Now  that  the  deal  was  fully  exposed  Valentine 
Simmons  was  impatient  of  small  precautions. 
"Can't  you  see  how  the  plan  lays?"  he  demanded 
irritably.  "We'll  draw  up  a  partnership.  Don't  get 
full  and  talk,"  he  added  discontentedly.  It  was 
evident  that  he  keenly  resented  the  absence  of  Pom- 
pey  Hollidew  from  the  transaction. 

"A  thing  like  this,"  he  informed  the  other,  "ain't 
put  through  in  a  week.  It  will  be  two  or  three  years 
yet  before  the  company  will  be  ready  for  construc 
tion." 

Minor  details  were  rehearsed,  concluded.  Two 
weeks  later  Gordon  signed  an  agreement  of  part 
nership  with  Valentine  Simmons  to  purchase  collec 
tively  such  timber  options  as  were  deemed  desirable, 
and  to  merchandise  their  interests  at  a  uniform  price 
to  the  railroad  company  concerned. 


[220T 


XIII 

WHEN  Gordon  returned  to  his  dwelling 
he  found  Sim  Caley  and  his  sister's 
husband  taking  the  horse  from  the 
shafts  of  a  dusty,  two-seated  carriage.  Rutherford 
Berry  was  a  slightly-built  man  with  high,  narrow 
shoulders,  and  a  smooth,  pasty- white  face.  He  was 
clerk  in  a  store  at  the  farther  end  of  Greenstream 
valley,  and  had  flat,  fragile  wrists  and  a  constant, 
irritating  cough. 

"H'y,  Gord!"  he  shouted;  "your  sister  wanted 
to  visit  with  you  over  night,  and  see  Lettice.  We 
only  brought  two — the  oldest  and  Barn  well  K." 

The  "oldest,"  Gordon  recalled,  was  the  girl  who 
had  worn  Clare's  silk  waist  and  "run  the  colors"; 
Barn  well  K.  Berry  was,  approximately,  ten. 

"That's  right,"  he  returned  cordially.  He  as 
sisted  in  running  the  carriage  back  by  the  shed. 
Lettice  and  his  sister  were  stiffly  facing  each  other 
in  the  sitting  room.  The  latter  had  a  fine,  thin 
countenance  with  pale  hair  drawn  tightly  back  and 
fastened  under  a  small  hat  pinned  precariously 
aloft;  her  eyes  were  steady,  like  his  own.  She  wore 
a  black  dress  ornamented  with  large  carmine  dots, 

[221] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

with  a  scant  black  ribband  about  her  waist,  her  sole 
adornment  a  brassy  wedding  ring,  that  almost  cov 
ered  an  entire  joint.  She  spoke  in  a  rapid,  absent 
voice,  as  if  her  attention  were  perpetually  wandering 
down  from  the  subject  in  hand  to  an  invisible  kitchen 
stove,  or  a  child  temporarily  unaccounted  for. 

"Lettice  looks  right  good,"  she  declared,  "and, 
dear  me,  why  shouldn't  she,  with  nothing  on  her 
mind  at  all  but  what  comes  to  every  woman,?  When 
I  had  my  last  Rutherford  was  down  with  the  influ 
enza,  the  youngest  was  taken  with  green-sickness, 
and  we  had  worked  out  all  our  pay  at  the  store  in 
supplies.  You're  fixed  nice  here,"  she  added  with 
out  a  trace  of  envy  in  her  tired  voice.  "I  suppose 
that's  Mrs.  Hollidew  in  her  shroud.  We  hafe  one 
of  James — he  died  at  three — sitting  just  as  natural 
as  life  in  the  rocker." 

"Where's  Rose?"  he  asked. 

"In  the  kitchen,  helping  Mrs.  Caley.  I  wanted 
to  ask  that  nothing  be  said  before  Rose  of  Lettice's 
expecting.  We've  brought  her  up  very  delicate; 
and  besides  there's  a  young  man  paying  her  atten 
tion,  it's  not  a  fitting  time — she  might  take  a  scare. 
I  had  promised  to  bring  Barnwell  K.  the  next  time." 

They  could  hear  from  without  the  boy  and  the 
hysterical  yelping  of  General  Jackson.  "That  dog 
won't  bite?  "  Mrs.  Berry  worried.  Gordon,  pa 
tently  indignant,  replied  that  the  General  never  bit. 

[222] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"Barn well  might  cross  him,"  she  answered;  and, 
moving  to  the  door,  summoned  her  offspring.  It 
was  the  sturdy  individual  who  had  burst  into  a  wail 
at  Clare's  funeral,  his  hair  still  bristling  against  a 
formal  application  of  soap. 

"Cm  on  in,  doggy,"  he  called;  "c'm  in,  Ginral. 
I  wisht  I  had  a  doggy  like  that,"  he  hung  on  his 
mother's  knees  lamenting  the  absence  from  their 
household  of  a  General  Jackson.  "Our  ol'  houn' 
dog's  nothing,"  he  asserted. 

Lettice,  worn  by  her  visitor's  rapid  monotone,  the 
stir  and  clatter  of  young  shoes,  remarked  petulantly, 
"Gordon  paid  two  hundred  dollars  for  that  single 
dog;  rhere  ought  to  be  something  extra  to  him." 

Mis.  Berry  received  this  item  without  signal 
amazement;  it  was  evident  that  she  was  prepared  to 
credit  any  vagaries  to  the  possessors  of  Pompey  Hol- 
lidew's  fabulous  legacy. 

"Just  think  of  that!"  she  exclaimed  mildly;  "I'll 
chance  that  dog  gets  a  piece  of  liver  every  day." 

Rose,  from  the  door,  announced  supper.  She 
was  an  awkward  girl  of  seventeen,  with  the  pallid 
face  and  blank  brown  eyes  of  her  father,  and  diffi 
dent  speech.  Gordon  faced  Lettice  over  her  figured 
red  cloth;  on  one  side  Barn  well  K.  sat  flanked  by 
his  mother  and  Simeon  Caley,  on  the  other  Rose  sat 
by  an  empty  chair,  the  place  of  the  now  energetically 
employed  Mrs.  Caley.  The  great,  tin  pot  of  coffee 
"  [223] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

rested  at  Lettice's  hand,  and,  before  Gordon,  a  por 
tentous  platter  held  three  gaunt,  brown  chickens  with 
brilliant  yellow  legs  stiffly  in  air.  Between  these 
two  gastronomic  poles  was  a  dish  of  heaped,  quiv 
ering  poached  eggs,  the  inevitable  gravy  boat,  steam 
ing  potatoes  and  a  choice  of  pies.  Gordon  dismem 
bered  the  chickens,  and,  as  the  plates  circled  the 
table,  they  accumulated  potatoes  and  gravy  a^d  eggs. 
Barn  well  K.,  through  an  oversight,  was  defrauded 
of  the  last  item,  and  proceeded  to  remedy  the  omis 
sion.  He  thrust  his  knife  into  the  slippery,  poached 
mass.  At  best  a  delicate  operation,  he  erred,  eggs 
slipped,  and  a  thick  yellow  stream  flowed  sluggishly 
to  the  rim  of  the  plate.  His  mother  met  this  fault 
of  manner  with  profuse,  disconcerted  apologies. 
She  shook  him  so  vigorously  that  his  chair  rattled. 
Simeon  Caley  lifted  the  heavy  coffee  pot  for  Let- 
tice. 

Mrs.  Caley's  service  was  abrupt,  efficient;  she  set 
down  plates  of  hot  bread  with  a  clatter;  she  rattled 
the  stove  lids  from  without,  and  complained  of  Gen 
eral  Jackson,  faithfully  following  her  every  move 
ment. 

Sim  Caley  wielded  an  adroit  knife;  but,  under 
the  extraordinary  pressure  of  this  bountiful  repast, 
Rutherford  Berry  easily  outdistanced  him.  He  con 
sumed  such  unlimited  amounts  that  he  gained  the 
audible  displeasure  of  his  wife. 

[224] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"You're  not  a  camel,"  she  truthfully  observed, 
"you  don't  have  to  fill  up  for  a  week;  you  get  some 
thing  home.  What  Lettice'll  think  of  you  I  can't 
make  out." 

Substantial  sections  of  pie  were  dispatched. 
Barnwell  K.,  valiantly  endeavoring  to  emulate  his 
father,  struggled  manfully;  he  poked  the  last  piece 
of  crust  into  his  mouth  with  his  fingers.  Then,  in 
a  shrill  aside*  he  inquired,  "Will  Aunt  Lettice  have 
the  baby  while  we're  here."  His  mother's  hand 
rang  like  a  shot  on  his  face,  and  he  responded  in 
stantly  with  a  yell  of  appalling  volume. 

Lettice's  cup  struck  sharply  upon  its  saucer.  The 
delicate  Rose  flushed  appropriately,  painfully.  The 
culprit  was  hauled,  incontinently,  dolefully  wail 
ing,  to  bed.  The  three  men  preserved  an  embar 
rassed  silence.  Finally  Gordon  said,  "Have  a 
cigar."  His  brother-in-law  responded  with  alac 
rity,  but  Sim  preferred  his  plug  tobacco,  and  Gor 
don  Makimmon  twisted  a  cigarette.  Sim  and  Ruth 
erford  were  patently  uncomfortable  amid  the  formal 
ity  of  the  dining  room;  and,  at  Gordon's  suggestion, 
trooped  with  relief  out  to  the  shedlike  stable.  There 
they  examined  critically  the  two  horses.  Facing  the 
stalls  was  an  open  space,  and  on  boxes  and  the  rem 
nant  of  a  chair  they  found  places  and  smoked  and 
spat  informally. 

"You  could  study  a  life  on  women,"  Rutherford 
[225] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

Berry  pronounced,  "and  never  come  to  any  satisfac 
tion.  It  seems  to  me  the  better  they  be  the  more 
sharp-like  they  get.  There's  your  sister,  Gord — 
the  way  she  does  about  the  house,  and  with  all  the 
children  to  tend,  is  a  caution  to  Dunkards.  She 
does  all  you  could  ask  and  again.  But  it  just  seems 
she  can't  be  pleasant  with  it.  Now  there's  Nickles, 
next  place  to  me,  his  old  woman's  not  worth  a  pinch 
of  powder,  but  she  is  the  nicest,  easiest  spoken  body 
you'd  meet  in  a  day  on  a  horse.  You  mind  Erne 
when  she  was  young,  Gord — she  just  trailed  song  all 
over  the  house,  but  it  wasn't  hardly  a  year  before  she 
got  penetrating  as  a  musket.  Rose  is  just  like  her 
— she's  all  taffy  now  on  that  young  man,  but  in  a 
little  spell  she'll  clamp  down  on  him." 

Gordon  had  a  swift  vision  of  Lettice  sharpening 
with  the  years ;  there  sounded  in  prospect  on  his  ear 
an  endless  roll  of  acidulous  remarks,  accompanied 
by  the  fretful  whine  of  children,  intensified  by  Mrs. 
Caley's  lowering  silence.  He  thought  of  the  change 
that  had  overtaken  his  sister  Effie,  remarked  by  her 
husband,  the  change  from  a  trim,  upright  figure  to 
the  present  stooped  form,  the  turning  of  that  voice 
brimming  with  song  to  a  continuous,  shrill  troubling. 

The  cool,  disdainful  countenance  of  Meta  Beggs 
returned  to  him:  time,  he  divined,  would  not  mark 
her  in  so  sorry  a  fashion;  to  the  last  she  would  re 
main  slimly  rounded,  graceful;  her  hands,  like  mag- 

[226] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

nolia  flowers,  would  never  thicken  and  grow  rough. 
He  thought  of  Paris,  of  that  life  which,  she  said, 
would  civilize  him;  he  tried  in  vain  to  form  an  im 
age  of  the  cafes  and  little  carriages,  the  bare-necked 
women  drinking  champagne.  He  recalled  a  bur 
lesque  show  he  had  once  seen  in  Stenton,  called  "The 
French  Widows";  the  revealed  amplitude  of  the 
"widows"  had  been  clad  in  vivid,  stained  pink 
tights;  the  scene  in  which  they  disported  with  a 
comic  Irishman,  a  lugubrious  Jew,  was  set  with 
gilded  palms,  a  saloon  bar  on  one  side  and  a  tank 
on  the  other  from  which  "Venus"  rose  flatly  from  a 
cotton  sea.  He  dismissed  that  possibility  of  re 
semblance — it  was  too  palpably  at  variance  with 
what  Meta  Beggs  would  consider  desirable;  but, 
somehow,  pink  tights  and  Paris  were  synonymous  in 
his  thoughts.  At  any  rate  it  was  certain  to  be  gay; 
the  women  would  resemble  Nickles'  wife  rather  than 
his  sister  .  .  .  than  Lettice  as  she  would  be  in  a 
few  years. 

He  recalled  suddenly  a  neglected  rite  of  hospital 
ity,  and  from  an  obscure  angle  of  the  shed,  produced 
a  gallon  jug.  Drinking  vessels  were  procured,  and 
a  pale,  pungent  whiskey  poured  out.  Rutherford 
Berry  sputtered  and  gasped  over  his  glass;  Sim  Ca- 
ley  absorbed  a  brimming  measure  between  breaths, 
without  a  wink  of  the  eye;  Gordon  drank  inatten 
tively.  The  ceremony  was  repeated;  a  flare  of  color 

[2271 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

rose  in  Berry's  pallid  countenance,  Sim's  portion 
apparently  evaporated  from  the  glass.  The  whis 
key  made  no  visible  impression  on  Gordon  Makim- 
mon.  The  jug  was  circulated  again,  and  again. 
All  at  once  Rutherford  became  drunk.  He  rose 
swaying,  attempted  to  articulate,  and  fell,  half  in  a 
stall.  Simeon  Caley  pulled  him  out,  slapped  his 
back  with  a  hard,  gnarled  palm,  but  was  unable  to 
arouse  him  from  a  profound  stupor. 

"He  ain't  right  strong,"  Sim  observed  with  a 
trace  of  contempt,  propping  the  figure  in  a  limp 
angle  against  the  wall.  It  was  dark  now,  and  he 
lit  the  hand  lantern,  cautiously  closing  the  door. 
Outside  the  whippoorwills  had  begun  to  call.  A 
determined  rattling  of  pots  and  pans  sounded  from 
the  kitchen. 

"How  much  is  in  her,  Gord?"  Sim  asked. 

Gordon  Makimmon  investigated  the  jug.  "She's 
near  three  quarters  full,"  he  announced. 

An  expression  of  profound  content  settled  upon 
Simeon  Caley.  The  jug  went  round  and  round. 
Gordon  grew  a  shade  more  punctilious  than  custom 
ary,  he  wiped  the  jug's  mouth  before  passing  it  to 
Sim — at  the  premature  retirement  of  Rutherford  the 
glasses  had  been  discarded  as  effete;  but  not  a  de 
gree  of  the  other's  manner  betrayed  the  influence  of 
his  Gargantuan  draughts  of  liquor.  The  lantern 
flickered  on  the  sloping,  cobwebby  roof,  on  the 

[228] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

shaggy  horses  as  they  lay  clumsily  down  to  rest,  on 
the  crumpled  figure  of  Gordon's  sister's  husband. 

The  potations  were  suddenly  interrupted  by  a 
sharp  knocking  from  without.  An  expression  of 
concern  instantly  banished  Sim's  content;  he  gazed 
doubtfully  at  the  jug,  then,  as  Gordon  made  no  move, 
rose  and  with  marked  diffidence  proceeded  to  open 
the  door.  The  lantern  light  fell  on  the  gaunt,  bitter 
countenance  of  his  wife  framed  in  imponderable 
night.  Her  eyes  made  liquid  gleams  in  the  waver 
ing  radiance  which,  directed  at  Gordon,  seemed  to  be 
visible  points  of  hatred. 

"It's  ten  o'clock,"  she  said  to  her  husband,  "and 
if  you  hain't  got  enough  sense  to  go  to  bed  I'll  put 
you." 

"I'm  coming  right  along,"  he  assured  her  pacifi 
cally;  "we  were  just  having  a  drink  around." 

"Mrs.  Berry's  asking  for  her  husband,"  she 
added,  gazing  at  that  insensate  form. 

"He  must  be  kind  of  bad  to  his  stomach,"  Sim 
remarked;  "he  dropped  with  nothing  'tall  on  him." 
He  bent  and  picked  the  other  up.  Rutherford  Ber 
ry's  arms  hung  limply  over  Sim's  grasp,  his  feet 
dragged  heavily,  in  unexpected  angles,  over  the 
floor.  "Coming,  Gord?" 

Gordon  made  no  reply.  He  sat  intent  upon  the 
jug  before  him.  Simeon  considerately  shut  the 
door.  At  regular  intervals  Gordon  Makimmon  took 

[229] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

a  long  drink.  He  drank  mechanically,  without  any 
evidence  of  desire  or  pleasure;  he  resembled  a  man 
blindly  performing  a  fatiguing  operation  in  his 
sleep ;  he  had  the  fixed,  open  eyes  of  a  sleep-walker, 
the  precise,  unnatural  movements.  The  lantern 
burned  steadily,  the  horses  slept  with  an  audible 
breathing.  Finally  the  jug  was  empty;  he  endeav 
ored  to  drink  twice  after  that  was  a  fact  before  dis 
covering  it. 

He  rose  stiffly  and  threw  open  the  door.  Dawn 
was  flushing  behind  the  eastern  range;  the  tops 
of  the  mountains  were  thinly  visible  on  the  bright 
ening  sky.  His  dwelling,  with  every  window  closed, 
was  silvery  with  dew.  He  walked  slowly,  but  with 
out  faltering,  to  the  porch,  and  mounted  the  steps 
from  the  sod;  the  ascent  seemed  surprisingly  steep, 
long.  The  door  to  the  dining  room  was  unlocked 
and  he  entered ;  in  the  thinning  gloom  he  could  dis 
tinguish  the  table  set  as  usual,  the  coffee  pot  at  Let- 
tice's  place  glimmering  faintly.  He  turned  to  the 
left  and  passed  into  their  bedroom.  The  details  of 
the  chamber  were  growing  clear :  the  bed  was  placed 
against  the  farther  wall,  projecting  into  the  room, 
its  low  footboard  held  between  posts  that  rose  slimly 
•dark  against  the  white  counterpane  beyond;  on  the 
right  were  a  window  and  high  chest  of  drawers,  on 
the  left  a  stand  with  a  china  toilet  service  and  a 
couch  covered  with  sheep  skins,  roughly  tanned  and 

[230] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

untrimmed.  A  chair  by  the  bed  bore  Lettice's 
clothes,  another  at  the  foot  awaited  his  own.  By 
his  side  a  curtain  hung  out  from  the  wall,  forming 
a  wardrobe. 

He  vaguely  made  out  the  form  of  Lettice  sitting 
upright  in  the  bed,  her  hands  clasped  about  her 
knees. 

"Your  brother-in-law/'  he  observed,  "is  a  pow 
erful  spindling  man."  She  made  no  rejoinder  to 
this,  and,  after  a  short  pause,  he  further  remarked, 
"How  he  gets  on  sociable  I  don't  see." 

His  wife's  eyes  were  opened  wide,  gazing  intently 
into  the  greying  room ;  not  by  a  sound,  a  motion,  did 
she  show  any  consciousness  of  his  presence.  He 
was  deliberate  in  his  movements,  very  deliberate, 
laboriously  exact  in  his  mental  processes,  but  they 
were  ordered,  logical.  It  began  to  annoy  him  that 
his  wife  had  made  no  reply  to  his  pleasantries;  it 
was  out  of  reason;  he  wasn't  drunk  like  Rutherford 
Berry. 

"I  said,"  he  pronounced,  "that  Berry  is  a  nubbin. 
Didn't  you  hear  me?  haven't  you  got  an  answer  to 
you?"  * 

She  sat  gazing  into  nothingness,  ignoring  him 
completely. 

His  resentment  changed  to  anger;  he  moved  to 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  where,  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  he 
harangued  her: 

[231] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"I  want  a  cheerful  wife,  one  with  a  song  to  her, 
and  not  a  dam'  female  elder  around  the  house.  A 
good  woman  is  a — a  jewel,  but  when  your  goodness 
gives  you  a  face  ache  it's  .  .  .  it's  something  differ 
ent,  it's  a  nuisance.  I'd  almost  rather  have  a  wife 
that  wasn't  so  good  but  had  some  give  to  her."  He 
sat  down,  clutching  a  heavy  shoe  which  came  off 
suddenly.  Lettice  was  as  immobile  as  the  chest  of 
drawers. 

"Goddy  knows,"  he  burst  out  again,  "it's  solemn 
enough  around  here  anyhow  with  Sim  Caley's  old 
woman  like  a  grave  hole,  and  now  you  go  and  get 
it  too.  .  .  .  Berry  might  put  up  with  it,  and  Sim's 
just  fool-hearted,  but  a  regular  man  wouldn't  abide 
it,  he'd — he'd  go  to  Paris,  where  the  women  are 
civilized  and  dance  all  night."  He  muttered  an 
unintelligible  period  about  French  widows  and  pink, 
.  .  .  "Buried  before  my  time,"  he  proclaimed.  He 
stood  with  his  head  grizzled  and  harsh  above  an  ab 
surdly  flowing  nightshirt.  In  the  deepening  light 
Lettice's  countenance  seemed  thinner  than  usual,  her 
round,  staring  eyes  were  frightened,  as  though  she 
had  seen  in  the  night  the  visible  apparition  of  the 
curse  of  suffering  laid  upon  all  birth. 

"You  look  like  you've  taken  leave  of  your  wits," 
he  exclaimed  in  an  accumulated  exasperation;  "say 
something."  He  leaned  across  the  bed,  and,  grasp- 

[232] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

ing  her  elbow,  shook  her.  She  was  as  rigid,  as  un 
yielding,  as  the  bed  posts.  Then  with  a  long,  slow 
shudder  she  turned  and  buried  her  head  in  the  pil 
low. 


[233] 


XIV 

RUTHERFORD  BERRY  and  Erne,  Barn- 
well  K.  and  the  delicate  Rose,  left  after 
breakfast.     Sim    drove    off    behind    the 
sturdy  horse  and  Mrs.  Caley  was  audibly  energetic 
in  the  kitchen.     When  Gordon  appeared  on  the 
porch  Lettice  was  seated  in  the  low  rocker  that  had 
so  often  held   Clare.     She  responded   in   a   sup 
pressed  voice  to  her  husband's  salutation.     "You 
went  and  spoiled  Effie's  whole  visit,"  she  informed 
him,  "making  Rutherford  drunk." 

"Why,"  he  protested,  "we  never;  he  just  got  him 
self  drunk." 

"It  was  mean  anyway — sitting  drinking  all  night 
in  the  stable." 

"You'll  say  I  was  drunk  too  next." 

"It  doesn't  matter  to  you  what  I  say,  or  what  I 
go  through  with.     I've  stood  more  than  I  rightly 
ought,  more  than  I'm  going  to — you  must  give  me 
one  thought  in  a  day.     You  just  act  low.     F, 
was  self-headed,  but  he  was  never  real  trashy. 
never  got  into  fights  at  those  common  camp  i 
ings." 

[234] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"I  threw  the  stone  that  hit  Buck,  didn't  I!  I 
busted  his  head  open,  didn't  I !  Oh,  of  course,  I'm 
to  blame  for  it  all  ...  put  it  on  me." 

"Well,  how  did  you  get  in  it?  how  did  you  get 
mixed  up  with  the  school-teacher?" 

"I  got  Mrs.  Caley  to  thank  for  this,  and  I'll  thank 
her."  He  hotly  recited  the  obvious  aspect  of  his 
connection  at  the  camp  meeting  with  Meta  Beggs. 

"It  sounds  all  right  as  far  as  it  goes,"  she  re 
torted;  "but  I'll  chance  there's  a  good  deal  more; 
I'll  chance  you  had  it  made  up  to  meet  her  there. 
You  would  never  have  gone  for  any  other  reason; 
I  don't  believe  you  have  been  to  a  revival  for  twenty 
years.  You  had  it  made  up  between  you.  And  that 
Miss  Beggs  is  too  smart  for  you,  she'll  fool  you  all 
over  the  mountain.  I  don't  like  her  either,  and  I 
don't  want  you  to  give  her  the  satisfaction  of  making 
up  to  you.  It's  what  she'd  like — laughing  at  my 
back!" 

"Miss  Beggs  never  spoke  any  harm  of  you." 

She  made  a  gesture,  hopeless,  impatient,  at  his  in 
nocence.  Her  resentment  burst  out  again,  "Why 
does  she  want  to  speak  to  you — another  woman's 
husband?  Anybody  knows  it's  low  down.  When 
did  you  see  her?  What  did  you  talk  about?" 

"Of  course  when  I  see  her  coming  I  ought  to  go 
'round  by  South  Fork,"  he  replied,  heavily  sarcas 
tic. 

[235] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"Well,  you  don't  have  to  stand  and  talk  like  I 
warrant  you  do.  There's  something  deep  about  her 
look." 

"I've  taken  care  of  myself  for  some  years,  and 
I  guess  I  can  keep  on." 

"You  can  if  you  want  to  go  to  ruin,  like  you  were 
when  I  married  you,  and  you  only  had  one  shirt  to 
your  name." 

"Throw  it  up  to  me.  It's  no  wonder  a  man 
drinks  here,  he's  got  more  to  forget  than  to  think 
about."  He  stepped  from  the  porch,  preparing  to 
leave. 

"Wait!"  she  commanded;  "I'll  put  up  with  be 
ing  left,  and  having  you  drink  all  night  with  the 
beasts,  and  fooling  my  money  away,  but,"  her  voice 
rose  and  her  eyes  burned  over  dark  shadows,  "I 
won't  put  up  with  another  woman,  I  won't  put  up 
with  that  thin  thing  making  over  my  husband.  I 
won't!  I  won't!  do  you  understand  that.  .  .  .  I — 
I  can't." 

He  went  around  the  corner  of  the  house  with  her 
last  words  ringing  in  his  ears,  kicking  angrily  at  the 
rough  sod.  His  house,  between  Mrs.  Caley's  glum 
silence  and  Lettice's  ceaseless  complaining,  was  be 
coming  uninhabitable.  And,  as  Rutherford  Berry 
had  pointed  out,  the  latter  would  only  increase, 
sharpen,  with  the  years.  Lettice  was  a  good  wife, 
she  was  not  like  Nickles'  old  woman,  worthless  but 

[236] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

ithe  pleasantest  body  you'd  meet  in  a  day  on  a  horse. 
She  was  not  like  Meta  Beggs.  He  had  never  seen 
any  other  like  the  latter.  Lettice  had  said  that  she 
would  fool  him  all  over  the  mountain  .  .  .  but  not 
him,  not  Gordon  Makimmon,  he  thought  compla 
cently. 

He  was  well  versed  in  the  ways  of  women;  he 
would  not  go  a  step  that  he  did  not  intend,  under 
stand.  This  business  of  Paris,  for  example:  he 
might  tell  Meta  Beggs  that  he'd  go,  and  then,  at — 
say,  Norfolk,  he  would  change  his  mind.  Anyhow 
that  was  a  plan  worth  considering.  He  recalled  the 
school-teacher's  level,  penetrating  gaze;  she  was  as 
smart  as  Lettice  had  divined;  he  would  have  diffi 
culty  in  fooling  her.  He  felt  obscurely  that  any  step 
taken  with  her  would  prove  irrevocable. 

Lettice  kept  at  him  and  at  him;  after  the  baby 
arrived  it  would  be  no  better ;  there  would  be  others ; 
he  regarded  a  succession  of  such  periods,  a  succes 
sion  of  babies,  with  marked  disfavor.  He  had  been 
detached  for  so  long  from  the  restraints  of  common 
place,  reputable  relationships  that  they  grew  increas 
ingly  irksome,  they  chafed  the  old,  established  free 
dom  of  morals  and  action.  Meta  Beggs  blew  into 
fresh  flame  the  embers  of  dying  years.  And  yet,  as 
he  had  told  her  by  the  stream,  an  involuntary  lassi 
tude,  a  new  stiffness,  had  fallen  upon  his  desire. 
Although  his  marriage  was  burdensome  it  was  an 

[237] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

accomplished  fact;  Lattice's  wishes,  her  quality  of 
steadfastness,  exerted  their  influence  upon  him. 

They  operated  now  to  increase  his  resentment; 
they  formed  an  almost  detached  disapproval  situated 
within  his  own  breast,  a  criticism  of  his  thoughts,  his 
emotions,  against  which  he  vainly  raged,  setting 
himself  pointedly  in.  its  defiance. 

He  lounged  past  the  Courthouse,  past  Peterman's 
hotel,  to  the  post-office.  It  was  a  small  frame  struc 
ture,  with  the  wing  of  the  postmaster's  residence  ex 
tending  from  the  back.  At  the  right  of  the  entrance 
was  a  small  show  window  holding  two  watches  with 
shut,  chased  silver  lids,  and  a  small  pasteboard  box 
lined  with  faded  olive-colored  plush  containing  two 
plated  nut  crackers  and  six  picks.  The  postmaster 
was  the  local  jeweller.  Within,  beyond  the  window 
which  gave  access  to  the  governmental  activities  a 
glass  case  rested  on  the  counter.  It  was  filled  with 
an  assortment  of  trinkets — rings  with  large,  highly- 
colored  stones,  wedding  bands,  gold  pins  and 
bangles  engraved  with  women's  flowery  names;  and, 
laid  by  itself,  a  necklace  of  looped  seed  pearls. 

The  latter  captured  Gordon's  attention,  it  was  so 
pale,  and  yet,  at  the  same  time,  so  suggestive  of  elu 
sive  colors ;  it  was  so  slender  and  graceful,  so  finished, 
that  it  irresistibly  recalled  the  person  of  Meta  Beggs. 

"Let's  see  that  string  of  pearls,"  he  requested. 

The  postmaster  laid  it  on  top  of  the  glass  case. 
[238] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"The  jobber  sent  it  up  by  accident,"  he  explained; 
"I  can't  see  anything  to  it — for  the  price;  it's  too- 
slimsy.  I  wouldn't  advise  it,  Gord.  Why,  for 
thirty  dollars,  and  that's  what  it  costs — diamond 
clasp,  you  can  get  a  string  of  fish  skin  pearls,  experts 
can't  tell  'em  from  original,  as  big  as  your  finger  end 
that  would  go  twice  about  the  neck  and  then  hang 


some." 


The  necklace  slipped  coldly  through  Gordon  Ma- 
kimmon's  hand;  it  reminded  him  of  a  small,  pearly 
snake  with  a  diamond  head;  it  increasingly  re 
minded  him  of  Meta  Beggs.  She  loved  jewelry.  If 
she  had  kissed  him  for  a  pair  of  silk  stockings — 

"I  think  I'll  take  it,"  he  decided  slowly;  "I  don't 
know  if  I've  got  her  right  here  in  my  pants." 

"Now,  Gordon,"  the  other  heartily  reassured  him, 
"whenever  you  like.  Of  course  it's  a  fine  article 
— all  strung  on  gold  wire.  I  won't  be  surprised 
but  Lettice'll  think  it's  elegant.  I  often  wondered 
why  you  didn't  stop  in  lately  and  look  over  my  stock ; 
ladies  put  a  lot  on  such  little  trifles." 

Meta  Beggs  would  have  to  wear  it  under  her  dress 
in  Greenstream,  he  realized;  perhaps  she  had  better 
not  wear  it  at  all  until  she  was  out  of  the  valley. 
He  would  clasp  the  pearls  about  that  smooth,  round 
throat.  .  .  .  The  postmaster  wrapped  the  pearls 
into  a  small,  square  package,  talking  voluminously. 
A  new  driver  of  the  Stenton  stage  had  lost  a  mail 

[239] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

bag,  he  had  lamed  a  horse — a  satisfactory  driver 
•had  not  been  discovered  since  Gordon  .  .  .  left. 
He  had  heard  of  a  law  restraining  the  sale  of  patent 
medicines,  of  Snibbs'  Mixture,  and  what  the  local 
drinkers  would  do,  already  deprived  of  the  more 
legitimate  forms  of  spirituous  refreshment,  was  dif 
ficult  to  say.  The  postmaster  predicted  they  would 
take  to  "dope."  Then  there  was  to  be  a  sap-boiling 
over  on  the  western  mountain,  to-morrow  night,  at 
old  man  Entriken's.  .  .  .  Everybody  had  been  in 
vited;  if  the  weather  was  ugly  it  would  take  place 
the  first  clear  spell. 

Sap-boilings,  Gordon  knew,  held  late  in  spring  in 
the  maple  groves,  lasted  all  night.  Baskets  of  food 
were  driven  to  the  scene;  the  fires  under  the  great, 
iron  kettles  were  kept  replenished ;  everybody  stirred 
the  bubbling  sap,  ate,  gabbled;  the  young  people 
even  danced  on  the  grass. 

It  was  a  romantic  ceremonial:  the  unusual  hours 
of  its  celebration,  the  mystery  of  night  in  close  groves 
lit  by  the  stars  temporarily  unsettled  life  from  its 
prosaic,  arduous  journey  toward  the  inevitable, 
blind  termination.  It  moved  the  thoughts  into  un 
wonted  fantasy,  the  heart  to  new,  unguessed  possi 
bilities.  For  that  night  established  values,  life-long 
habits,  negations,  prudence,  were  set  at  naught. 

Gordon  wondered  whether  Meta  Beggs  would  be 
there  ?  He  would  like  to  be  with  her  at  a  sap-boil- 

[240] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

ing,  in  the  sooty  shadows.  With  the  necklace  of 
seed  pearls  in  his  pocket  he  walked  over  the  street  re 
volving  in  his  mind  the  problem  of  asking  her  to 
accompany  him.  He  could  not  hope  to  hide  it 
from  Lettice;  and,  today,  he  had  recognized  a  note 
of  finality  in  his  wife's  voice  with  regard  to  the 
school-teacher.  If  he  went  with  Meta  Beggs  serious 
trouble  would  ensue  in  his  home  ...  he  wished  to 
avoid  any  actual  outbreak  with  Lettice.  He  remem 
bered,  tardily,  her  condition;  it  would  be  danger 
ous  for  her.  He  might,  conceivably,  at  some  time 
or  another,  go  away;  even  to  Paris — yet,  at  that 
latter  thought,  the  wish,  almost  the  necessity,  of  a 
return  lingered  at  the  back  of  his  brain — but  he 
would  not  goad  her  into  an  explosion  of  misery  and 
temper.  He  acknowledged  to  himself,  with  a  faint 
glow  of  pride,  that  he  was  not  anxious  to  encounter 
^Lettice  Makimmon's  full  displeasure;  she  possessed 
the  capability  of  tenacity,  an  iron-like  resolve,  in 
herited  from  old  Pompey. 

In  the  outcome  his  difficulty  was  unexpectedly 
solved  for  him — a  large  farm  wagon,  with  boards 
temporarily  laid  from  side  to  side,  was  to  convey 
a  quantity  of  people,  and  among  them  Meta  Beggs, 
from  the  village  to  the  sap-boiling.  He  learned  this- 
from  the  idlers  before  the  Bugle  office.  Sitting  with 
his  chair  canted  against  that  dingy  wooden  facade 
he  thought  of  the  school-teacher  and  the  coming 

[241] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

night.  It  was  late  afternoon  of  the  day  on  which  he 
had  bought  the  necklace.  The  small  package  still 
rested  in  his  pocket.  It  had  been  his  intention  to 
give  the  pearls  to  Meta  Beggs  before  he  returned  to 
his  home,  but  no  opportunity  had  offered.  After 
school  she  had  passed  the  seated  row  of  men,  uneasily 
stirring  their  hats  in  response  to  her  collected  greet 
ing;  and,  with  Mrs.  Peterman,  gone  into  the  body  of 
the  hotel.  Gordon  could  not  follow  her.  Anyhow, 
the  presentation  could  be  made  with  better  effect  in 
the  obscurity  of  the  maples  to-morrow  night  .  .  . 
her  gratitude  could  have  fuller  sweep. 

He  made  his  way  finally,  reluctantly,  home. 
There,  alone  in  the  bedroom,  he  swiftly  withdrew 
the  necklace  from  its  pasteboard  box,  and  dropped 
it  into  the  pocket  of  a  coat  hanging  in  the  curtained 
wardrobe.  It  was,  he  noted,  the  checked  suit  with 
the  red  thread,  the  one  he  would  wear  to  the  sap- 
boiling.  He  heard  approaching  footsteps,  and, 
hastily  crumpling  the  paper  and  small  box  into  a 
compact  unit,  he  flung  it  into  a  corner  of  the  ward 
robe,  behind  a  heap  of  linen. 


[242] 


XV 

IT  was  comparatively  a  short  distance  to  the  elder 
Entriken's  farm,,  and,  rather  than  invent  a  la 
borious  explanation  of  the  horse's  absence  all 
night,   Gordon   walked.     Numberless   excuses   of 
fered  him  plausible  reason  for  his  own  delayed  re 
turn  home. — It  was  better  to  say  nothing  to  Lettice 
of  his  actual  intention;  she  was  already  suspicious 
of  his  sudden  interest  in  local  gatherings. 

The  road  beyond  Greenstream  village  crossed  a 
brook  and  mounted  by  sharp  turns  the  western 
range.  The  day  had  faded  to  amethyst,  pale  in  the 
translucent  vault  of  the  sky,  deepening  in  the  val 
ley;  the  plum-colored  smoke  of  evening  fires  as 
cended  in  tenuous  columns  to  an  incredible  height. 
He  walked  rapidly,  with  the  oppressed  heart  that 
had  lately  grown  familiar,  the  sense  of  imminence, 
the  feeling  of  advancing  into  a  vague,  towering 
shadow.  That  last  sensation  was  at  once  new  and 
familiar — where  before  had  he  been  conscious  of  a 
vast,  indefinable  peril,  blacker  than  night,  looming 
implacably  before  him?  He  summoned  his  old 
hardihood  and  advanced  over  the  still,  bosky  side  of 
the  mountain. 

[243] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

He  descended,  beyond  the  ridge,  into  the  fact  of 
evening  accomplished.  At  the  base  of  the  range  he 
crossed  a  softly-swelling  expanse  of  close-cropped 
grass,  skirted  a  bog  and  troop  of  naked-seeming 
birches,  and  came  in  view  of  the  maple  grove  to 
ward  which  he  was  bound. 

The  maple  trees  towered  compact  and  majestic 
over  the  level  sod,  holding  their  massed  foliage 
black  against  the  green  sky.  Low  in  the  right  the 
new  moon  hung  like  a  gold  fillet  above  the  odorous, 
crepuscular  earth;  and,  at  the  base  of  the  trees,  the 
fires  were  like  bubbling,  crimson  sealing  wax  poured 
into  the  deeper,  indigo  gloom. 

As  Gordon  advanced  he  saw  a  number  of  vehicles, 
from  which  the  horses  had  been  taken  and  tied  to  an 
improvised  railing.  Figures  moved  darkly  against 
the  flames;  beyond  familiar  features  flickered  like 
partial,  painted  masks  on  the  night.  In  the  grove 
the  sap,  stirred  in  the  great  iron  kettles,  kept  up  a 
constant,  choking  minor;  the  smooth  trunks  of  the 
trees  swept  up  from  the  unsteady  radiance  into  the 
obscurity  of  invisible  branches  looped  with  silver 
strings  of  stars. 

Blurred  forms  moved  everywhere.  He  searched 
for  Meta  Beggs.  She  was  not  by  the  kettles  of  sap; 
beyond  the  trees,  by  covered  baskets  of  provisions 
lanterns  made  a  saffron  pool  of  light,  but  she  was  not 
there.  He  felt  in  his  pocket  the  cool,  sinuQUS  neck- 

[244] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

lace.  Finally  he  found  her ;  or,  rather,  she  slipped 
illusively  into  his  contracted  field  of  vision. 

"You  didn't  tell  me  you  were  coming,"  she  re 
proached  him. 

She  wore  a  red  dress,  purple  in  the  night,  with  a 
narrow,  black  velvet  ribband  pinned  about  her 
throat ;  her  straw  hat  was  bound  in  red.  She  gained 
an  extraordinary  potency  from  the  dark;  it  almost 
seemed  to  Gordon  Makimmon  that  her  skin  had  a 
luminous  quality;  he  could  see  her  pointed  hands 
distinctly,  and  her  small,  cold  face.  All  her  dresses 
strained  about  her  provocative  body,  an  emphasis 
rather  than  a  covering  of  her  slim  maturity.  They 
drifted,  without  further  speech,  out  of  the  circles  of 
wavering  light,  into  the  obscurity  beyond. 

They  sat,  resting  against  a  hillock  of  sod,  facing 
the  sinking  visible  rim  of  the  moon.  From  the  bog 
the  frogs  sounded  like  a  continuously  and  lightly- 
struck  xylophone.  Meta  Beggs  shivered. 

"I'll  go  mad  here,"  she  declared,  "in  this — this 
nothingness.  Look — the  moon  dropping  into  wil 
derness;  other  lucky  people  are  watching  it  disap 
pear  behind  great  houses  and  gardens ;  women  in  the 
arms  of  their  lovers  are  watching  it  through  silk 


curtains." 


He  gazed  critically  over  the  valley,  the  moun 
tains,  into  the  sky  scarfed  by  night.  "I'm  used  to 
it,"  he  returned;  "it  doesn't  bother  me  like  it  does 

[245] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

you.  Some  people  even  like  it.  A  man  who  came 
here  from  the  city  to  die  of  lung  trouble  sat  for 
weeks  looking  up  Greenstream  valley;  he  couldn't 
get  enough  morning  or  evening." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  die,  I  want  to  live.  I'm  go 
ing  to  live,  too;  I've  decided — " 

"What?" 

"To  stop  teaching.  When  the  term's  over,  in  a 
few  weeks,  I'm  going  to  take  the  money  I  make  and 
go  to  New  York.  It  will  be  just  enough  to  get  me 
there  and  buy  me  a  pretty  hat,  with  a  few  dollars 
over.  I  am  going  with  those  into  a  cafe  and  get  a 
bottle  of  champagne,  and  pick  out  the  man  with 
the  best  clothes.  I'll  tell  him  I'm  a  poor  school 
teacher  from  the  South  who  came  to  New  York  to 
meet  a  man  who  promised  to  marry  me,  but  who  had 
not  kept  his  word.  I'll  tell  him  that  I'm  good — I 
can,  you  know ;  no  man  has  ever  fooled  anything  out 
of  me — and  that  I  bought  wine  to  get  the  courage  to 
kill  myself." 

"It  sounds  right  smart,"  he  admitted;  "you  can 
do  it  too,  you  can  lie  like  hell.  But,"  he  added  im 
portantly,  "I  don't  know  that  I  will  let  you."  This, 
he  assured  himself,  was  purely  experimental.  He 
had  decided  nothing;  his  course  in  the  future  was 
hidden  from  him  absolutely.  He  thought  discon 
tentedly  of  his  home,  of  the  imagined  long,  dun  vista 
of  years. 

[246] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

He  was  now,  he  realized  dimly,  at  the  crucial 
point  of  his  existence:  with  Meta  Beggs,  in  that 
world  of  which  Paris  was  the  prefigurement,  he 
might  still  wring  from  life  a  measure  of  the  sharp 
pleasures  of  tempestuous  youth  and  manhood;  he 
might  still  dance  to  the  piping  of  the  senses.  With 
Lettice  in  Greenstream  he  would  rapidly  sink  into 
the  dullness  of  increasing  age. 

He  was  vaguely  conscious  of  the  baseness  of  the 
mere  weighing  of  such  a  choice;  but  he  was  en 
gulfed  in  his  overmastering  egotism;  his  sense  of 
obligation  was  dulled  by  the  supreme  selfishness  of 
a  life-time,  of  a  life-time  of  unbridled  temper  and 
appetite,  of  a  swaggering  self-esteem  which  the  re 
morseless  operation  of  fate  had  ignored,  had  passed 
indifferently  by,  leaving  him  in  complete  ignorance 
of  the  terrible  and  grim  possibilities  of  human  mis 
chance. 

He  had  suffered  at  the  loss  of  his  dwelling,  but 
principally  it  had  been  his  pride  that  had  borne  the 
wound;  Clare's  death  had  affected  him  finally  as  the 
arbitrary  removal  of  a  sentimental  object  for  his 
care,  on  which  to  lavish  the  gifts  of  his  large  gener 
osity. 

He  sat  revolving  in  his  mind  the  choice  of  paths 
which  seemed  to  open  for  his  decision  in  such  differ 
ent  directions,  which  seemed  to  await  the  simple  or 
dering  of  his  footsteps  as  he  chose.  The  night 

[247] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

deepened  to  its  darkest  hour ;  the  moon,  in  obedience 
to  its  automatic,  fixed  course,  had  vanished  behind 
the  mountains;  the  frogs,  out  of  their  slime,  raised 
their  shrill  plaint  of  life  in  death. 


[248] 


XVI 

<  'ir^'VE  got  something  for  you,"  Gordon  said  sud- 
i     denly. 

JL  "I  hope  it's  pretty,"  she  replied,  leaning 
forward,  resting  against  his  shoulder. 

He  brought  from  his  pocket  the  slender,  looped 
necklace  of  seed  pearls.  It  was  faintly  visible  in  the 
dark,  the  diamond  clasp  made  a  small  glint.  She 
took  it  eagerly  from  him.  "I'll  light  a  match,"  he 
told  her.  In  the  minute,  orange  radiance  the  pearls 
shimmered  in  her  fingers. 

"But  it's  wonderful!"  she  exclaimed,  unable  to 
surpress  her  surprise  at  his  unerring  choice;  "it's 
exactly  right.  Have  you  been  to  Stenton?  however 
could  you  get  this  here?" 

"Oh,  I  know  a  few  things,"  he  assured  her;  "I 
got  an  eye.  Let  me  put  it  on  for  you."  He  took 
it  from  her,  and  his  hands  fumbled  about  her  smooth 
throat.  He  required  a  long  time  to  fasten  it.  The 
intoxication  of  the  subtlety  of  her  sex  welled  from 
hand  to  head.  He  kissed  her  still  lips  until  he 
ceased  from  sheer  lack  of  breath.  He  drew  her 
close  to  him,  with  an  arm  about  her  pliant  waist. 

"I've  been  thinking  of  you  in -those  pretty  clothes," 
he  admitted. 

[249] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"All  lace  and  webby  pink  silk  and  ribbands  un 
derneath,"  she  reminded  him;  "but  only  for  you, 
and  satin  trains  and  diamonds  for  the  others." 

Her  words  winged  like  little  flames  into  his  imagi 
nation.  He  whispered  in  her  ear,  "Richmond." 
She  stiffened  in  his  arms  as  if  that  single  word  had 
the  power  to  freeze  her.  "We'll  see,  we'll  see," 
he  added  hastily,  fearing  to  dispel  her  complacency. 
"Paris  is  a  long  way  ...  a  man  could  never  come 
back." 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  so  cautious,"  she  chal 
lenged;  "I  thought  you  were  bolder — that's  your 
reputation  in  Greenstream,  a  bad  one  for  a  man 
or  woman  to  cross." 

"So  I've  been,"  he  acknowledged;  "I  told  you  I 
wouldn't  have  hesitated  a  while  back." 

"What  is  holding  you  now — your  wife?  She 
would  soon  get  over  it.  She's  only  a  girl,  she  hasn't 
had  enough  experience  to  hold  a  man.  Besides,  she 
must  know  by  now  that  you  only  married  her  for 
money;  she  must  know  you  don't  care  for  her; 
women  always  find  out." 

The  bald,  incontestable  statement  of  his  reason 
for  marrying  Lettice  disconcerted  him.  He  had 
never  made  the  acknowledgment  of  putting  it  into 
words  to  himself,  and  no  one  else  had  openly 
guessed,  had  dared.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  it  appeared  to  him  in  the  light  of  a  pos- 
[250] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

sible  act  of  cowardice — Lettice,  a  girl,  blinded  by 
affection.  And,  equally,  it  was  undeniably  true  that 
he  did  not  care  for  her  ...  he  did  not  care  for 
her?  that  realization  too  carried  a  slight  sting.  But 
neither  did  he  care  for  Meta  Beggs;  something  dif 
ferent  attracted  him  to  the  latter;  she — she  brought 
him  out,  that  was  it;  she  ministered  to  his  pleasure, 
his  desire,  his — 

"Don't,"  she  said  firmly. 

His  balked  feelings  overmastered  him,  and  he 
disregarded  her  prohibition.  She  slipped  from  his 
grasp  as  lithely  as  the  serpentine  pearls  had  run 
through  his  fingers. 

"Haven't  you  learned,"  she  demanded,  standing, 
"that  I  can't  be  bought  with  silk  stockings  or  a  little 
necklace?  Or,  perhaps,  you  are  cheap,  and  I  have 
been  entirely  wrong.  ...  I'm  going  to  get  some 
thing  to  eat,  with  the  people  who  brought  me  from 
Greenstream.  I  will  be  back  here  in  two  hours,  but 
it  will  be  for  the  last  time.  You  must  decide  one 
way  or  the  other  while  I  am  gone.  You  may  stay  or 
leave;  I'm  going  to  leave.  Remember — no  more 
penny  kisses,  no  more  meetings  like  this ;  it  must  be 
all  or  nothing.  Some  man  will  take  me  to  Paris, 
have  me."  She  dissolved  against  the  dark  of  the 
maple  grove. 

[251] 


XVII 

BUT,  curiously,  sitting  alone,  he  gave  little 
consideration  to  the  decision,  immediate  and 
irrevocable,  which  confronted  him.  His 
thoughts  evaded,  defied,  him,  retreated  into  night- 
like  obscurity,  returned  burdened  with  trivial  and 
unexpected  details  of  memory.  It  grew  colder,  the 
rich  monotone  of  mountain  and  sky  changed  to  an 
impenetrable,  ugly  density  above  which  the  constel 
lations  wheeled  without  color.  His  back  was  to 
ward  the  maple  grove;  the  removed,  disembodied 
voices  mingled  in  a  sound  not  more  intelligible  than 
the  chorus  of  frogs.  It  occurred  to  him  suddenly 
that,  perhaps,  in  a  week,  a  month,  he  might  not  be 
in  Greenstream,  nor  in  the  mountains,  but  with  the 
white  body  of  Meta  Beggs  in  the  midst  of  one  of 
those  vast,  fabulous  cities  the  lust  of  which  pos 
sessed  her  so  utterly.  ...  Or  she  would  be  gone. 

'He  thought  instinctively  of  the  little  cemetery  on 
the  slope  above  the  village.  One  by  one  that  rocky 
patch  was  absorbing  family  and  familiars.  Life 
appeared  to  be  a  stumbling  procession  winding 
through  Greenstream  over  the  rise  and  sinking  into 

[252] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

that  gaping,  insatiable  chasm.  He  was  conscious 
of  an  invisible  force  propelling  him  into  that  sorry 
parade,  toward  those  unpretentious  stones  marked 
with  the  shibboleth  of  names  and  dates.  A  desper 
ate  anxiety  to  evade  this  fate  set  his  soul  cowering  in 
its  fatal  mask  of  clay.  This,  he  realized,  was  un 
adulterated,  childish  fear,  and  he  angrily  aroused 
himself  from  its  stifling  influence. 

Meta  Beggs  would  be  back  soon;  she  would  re 
quire  an  answer  to  her  resolve  ...  all  or  nothing. 
The  heat,  chilled  by  the  night  and  loneliness,  faded 
a  little  from  his  blood.  She  demanded  a  great  deal 
— a  man  could  never  return.  He  bitterly  cursed  his 
indecision.  He  became  aware  of  a  pervading  weari 
ness,  a  stiffness  from  his  prolonged  contact  with  the 
earth,  and  he  rose,  moved  about.  His  legs  were  as 
rigid,  as  painful,  as  an  old  man's;  he  had  been  lean 
ing  on  his  elbow,  and  the  arm  was  dead  to  the  fin 
gers.  The  nerves  pricked  and  jerked  in  infinitesi 
mal,  fiery  agonies.  He  swung  his  arms,  stamped  his 
feet,  aiding  his  stagnating  circulation.  The  frogs 
ceased  their  complaint  abruptly;  the  concerted  jangle 
of  voices  in  the  grove  rose  and  fell.  The  replen 
ished  fires  poured  their  energy  over  the  broad  bot 
toms  of  the  sap  kettles. 

The  night  faded. 

The  change,  at  first,  was  imperceptible:  as  al 
ways  the  easterly  mountains  grow  visible  against  a. 

[253] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

lighter  sky.  The  foliage  of  the  maples,  stripped  of 
the  looping  stars,  took  the  form  of  individual 
branches  brightening  from  black  to  green.  There 
was  a  stir  of  dim  figures  about  the  impatient  horses. 
Meta  Beggs  came  swiftly  to  him.  He  could  see  her 
face  plainly  now,  and  was  surprised  at  its  strained, 
anxious  expression.  Her  hand  closed  upon  his  arm, 
she  drew  him  to  her: 

"Which?"  she  whispered. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  dully  replied. 

"Save  me,"  she  implored;  "take  me  away."  She 
whispered  maddeningly  in  his  ear,  summoning  the 
lust  within  him,  the  clamor  in  his  brain,  the  throb 
bing  in  his  throat,  his  wrists.  He  shut  his  eyes,  and, 
when  he  opened  them,  the  dawn  had  arrived.  It 
forced  her  from  him.  Her  gown  changed  to  vivid 
red ;  about  her  throat  the  graceful  pearls  were  faintly 
iridescent. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  repeated  wearily. 

Over  her  shoulder  he  saw  a  buggy  approaching 
across  the  grass.  It  was  disconcertingly  familiar, 
until  he  recognized,  beyond  any  doubt,  that  it  was 
his  own.  Sim,  he  assured  himself,  had  learned  of 
his  presence  at  the  sap-boiling,  and,  in  passing,  had 
stopped  to  fetch  him  home.  But  there  was  no  man 
in  the  buggy  .  .  .  only  two  women.  Meta  Beggs, 
intercepting  his  intent  gaze,  turned  and  followed  it 
to  its  goal  .  .  .  Gordon  saw  now  that  Mrs.  Caley 

[254] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

was  driving,  and  by  her  side  .  .  .  Lettice !  Lettice 
— riding  over  the  rough  field,  over  the  dark  stony 
roads,  when  now,  so  soon  ...  in  her  condition 
...  it  was  insanity.  Simeon  Caley's  wife  should 
never  have  allowed  it. 

The  horse,  stolidly  walking  over  the  sod,  stopped 
before  them.  Mrs.  Caley  held  a  rein  in  either  hand, 
her  head,  framed  in  a  rusty  black  bonnet  and  strings, 
was  as  dark,  as  immobile  as  iron.  Lettice  gathered 
her  shawl  tightly  about  her  shoulders;  she  had  on  a 
white  waist  and  her  head  was  bare.  She  descended 
clumsily  from  the  buggy  and  walked  slowly  up  to 
Gordon.  Her  face  was  older  than  he  had  ever  seen 
it,  and  pinched;  in  one  hand  she  grasped  a  small 
pasteboard  box. 


[255] 


XVIII 

GORDON  MAKIMMON  made  one  step  to 
ward  her.  Lettice  held  the  box  in  an  ex 
tended  hand: 

"Gordon/'  she  asked,  "what  was  this  for?  It 
was  in  the  clothes  press  last  evening :  it  couldn't  have 
been  there  long.  You  see — it's  a  little  jewellery 
box  from  the  post-office;  here  is  the  name  on  the  lid. 
Somehow,  Gordon,  finding  it  upset  me;  I  couldn't 
stop  'til  I'd  seen  you  and  asked  you  about  it.  Some 
how  there  didn't  seem  to  be  any  time  to  lose.  I 
asked  for  you  last  night  in  the  village,  but  everybody 
had  gone  to  the  sap-boiling  ...  I  sat  up  all  night 
.  .  .  waiting  ...  I  couldn't  wait  any  longer,  Gor 
don,  somehow.  I  had  to  come  out  and  find  you, 
and  everybody  had  gone  to  the  sap-boiling,  and — " 

"Why,  Lettice,"  he  stammered,  more  disconcerted 
by  the  sudden  loss  of  youth  from  her  countenance 
than  by  her  words;  "if  wasn't — wasn't  much." 

"What  was  it,  Gordon?"  she  insisted. 

Suddenly  he  was  unable  to  lie  to  her.  Her  ques 
tioning  eyes  held  a  quality  that  dispelled  petty  and 
'  [256] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

casual  subterfuges.  The  evasion  which  he  sum 
moned  to  his  lips  perished  silently. 

"A  string  of  pearls,"  he  muttered. 

"Why  did  you  crush  the  pretty  box  if  they  were 
for — for  me  or  for  your  sister,  if  it  was  to  be  a 
surprise?  I  can't  understand — " 

"It,  it  was—" 

"Who  were  they  for,  Gordon?" 

A  blundering  panic  swept  over  him;  Lettice  was 
more  strange  than  familiar;  she  was  unnatural;  her 
hair  didn't  shine  in  the  sunlight  streaming  into  the 
shallow,  green  basin;  in  the  midst  of  the  warm  ef 
florescence  she  seemed  remote,  chill. 

"For  her,"  he  moved  his  head  toward  Meta  Beggs. 

She  withdrew  her  burning  gaze  from  Gordon  Ma- 
kimrnon  and  turned  to  the  school-teacher. 

"For  Miss  Beggs,"  she  repeated,  "why  .  .  .  why, 
that's  bad,  Gordon.  You're  married  to  me;  I'm 
your  wife.  Miss  Beggs  oughtn't  ...  she  isn't  any 
thing  to  you." 

Meta  Beggs  stood  motionless,  silent,  her  red  cot 
ton  dress  drawing  and  wrinkling  over  her  rounded 
shoulders  and  hips.  The  necklace  hung  gracefully 
about  the  slender  column  of  her  throat. 

The  two  women  standing  in  the  foreground  of 
Gordon  Makimmon's  vision,  of  his  existence, 
summed  up  all  the  eternal  contrast,  the  struggle,  in 
|  the  feminine  heart.  And  t$y  summed  up  the  du- 

[257] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

plicity,  the  weakness,  the  sensual  and  egotistical  de 
sires,  the  power  and  vanity  and  vain-longing,  of 
men. 

Meta  Beggs  was  the  mask,  smooth  and  sterile,  of 
the  hunger  for  adornment,  for  gold  bands  and  jew 
els  and  perfume,  for  goffered  linen  and  draperies  of 
silk  and  scarlet.  She  was  the  naked  idler  stained 
with  antimony  in  the  clay  courts  of  Sumeria;  the 
Paphian  with  painted  feet  loitering  on  the  roofs  of 
Memphis  while  the  blocks  of  red  sandstone  floated 
sluggishly  down  the  Nile  for  the  pyramid  of  Khufu 
the  King;  she  was  the  flushed  voluptuousness  re 
laxed  in  the  scented  spray  of  pagan  baths;  the 
woman  with  piled  and  white-powdered  hair  in  a 
gold  shift  of  Louis  XIV;  the  prostitute  with  a 
pinched  waist  and  great  flowered  sleeves  of  the  Mai- 
son  Doree.  She  was  as  old  as  the  first  vice,  as  the 
first  lust  budding  like  a  black  blossom  in  the  mor 
bidity  of  men  successful,  satiated. 

She  was  old,  but  Lettice  was  older. 

Lettice  was  more  ancient  than  men  walking  cun 
ning  and  erect,  than  the  lithe  life  of  sun-heated 
tangles,  than  the  vital  principle  of  flowering  plants 
fertilized  by  the  unerring  chance  of  vagrant  insects 
and  airs. 

Standing  in  the  flooding  blue  flame  of  day  they 
opposed  to  each  other  the  forces  fatally  locked  in  the 
body  of  humanity.  Lettice,  with  her  unborn  child, 

[258] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

her  youth  haggard  with  apprehension  and  pain,  t1"0 
prefigurement  of  the  agony  of  birth,  gazed,  ^  nb 
and  bitter  in  her  sacrifice,  at  the  graceful,  cola  fig 
ure  that,  as  irrevocably  as  herself,  denied  all  that 
Lettice  affirmed,  desired  all  that  she  feared  and 
hated. 

"Why,  that's  bad,  Gordon,"  she  reiterated,  "I'm 
your  wife.  And  Miss  Beggs  is  bad,  I'm  certain  of 
that."  A  spasm  of  suffering  crossed  her  face  like  a 
cloud. 

"You  ought  not  to  have  come,  Lettice.  Lettice, 
you  ought  not  to  have  come,"  he  told  her.  His  dull 
voice  reflected  the  lassitude  that  had  fallen  upon  him, 
the  sudden  death  of  all  emotion,  the  swift  extinguish 
ing  of  his  interest  in  the  world  about  him;  it  re 
flected,  in  his  indifference  to  desire,  an  indifference 
to  Meta  Beggs. 

"Do  you  love  her,  Gordon?"  his  wife  asked. 

"No,  I  don't,"  he  answered,  perceptibly  impatient 
at  the  question. 

"Do  you  like  her  better  than  you  like  me?" 

The  palpable  answer  to  her  query,  that  he  thought 
of  himself  more  than  either,  evaded  him.  "I  don't 
like  her  better  than  I  like  you,"  he  repeated  baldly. 

Lettice  turned  to  the  other  woman.  "There's  not 
much  you  can  say,"  she  declared,  "caught  like  this 
trying  to  steal  somebody's  husband.  And  you  set 
over  a  school  of  children! " 

[259] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"I  don't  choose  to  be,"  Meta  Beggs  retorted.  "I 
hate  it,  but  I  had  to  live.  If  you  hadn't  had  all  that 
money  to  keep  you  soft,  yes,  and  get  you  a  husband, 
you  would  have  had  to  fight  and  do,  too.  You 
might  have  been  teaching  a  roomful  of  little  sneaks, 
and  sick  to  death  of  it  before  ever  you  began  .  .  . 
or  you  might  be  on  the  street — better  girls  have  than 
you." 

"And  you  bought  her  a  necklace,  Gordon,  her — " 

All  that  he  now  desired  was  to  get  Lettice  safely 
home.  Another  wave  of  pain  rose  whitely  over  her 
countenance.  "Come  on,  Lettice,"  he  urged;  "just 
step  into  the  buggy."  He  waved  toward  the  vehicle, 
toward  the  peacefully  grazing  horse,  Mrs.  Caley  sit 
ting  upright  and  sallow. 

"And  take  him  right  along  with  you,"  Meta 
Beggs  added;  "your  money's  tight  around  his  neck." 

Resentment  at  the  implied  ignominy  penetrated 
his  self-esteem. 

"We're  going  right  on  now,  Lettice,"  he  contin 
ued;  "we  must  drive  as  careful  as  possible." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  want  you,"  his  wife  ar 
ticulated  slowly. 

"You  can  decide  that  later,"  he  returned;  "we're 
going  home  first." 

She  relaxed  her  fingers,  and  dropped  the  paste 
board  box  on  the  turf.  She  stood  with  her  arms 
hanging  limply,  breathing  in  sharp  inspirations. 

[260] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

She  gazed  about  at  the  valley,  the  half-distant  maple 
grove:  suddenly  the  youth  momentarily  returned  to 
her,  the  frightened  expression  of  a  child  abruptly 
conscious  of  isolation  in  an  alien,  unexpected  setting. 

"Gordon,"  she  said  rapidly,  "I  had  to  come — 
find  you  .  .  .  something — "  her  voice  sharpened 
with  apprehension.  "Tell  me  it  will  be  all  right. 
It  won't  .  .  .  kill  me."  She  stumbled  toward  him, 
he  caught  her,  and  half  carried  her  to  the  buggy, 
where  he  lifted  her  over  the  step  and  into  the  seat. 
A  red-clad  arm  was  supporting  her  on  the  other  side : 
it  was  Meta  Beggs. 

"You  drive,"  he  directed  Mrs.  Caley.  He  held 
Lettice  with  her  face  hidden  against  his  shoulder. 
The  valley  was  refulgent  with  early  summer,  the 
wheat  was  swelling  greenly,  the  meadows,  threaded 
by  shining  streams  were  sown  with  flowers,  grazed 
by  herds  of  cattle  with  hides  like  satin,  the  pellucid 
air  was  filled  with  indefinite  birdsong.  The  buggy 
lurched  over  a  hillock  of  grass,  his  wife  shuddered 
in  his  arms,  and  an  unaccustomed,  vicarious  pain 
contracted  his  heart.  Where  the  fields  gave  upon 
the  road  the  buggy  dropped  sharply;  Lettice  cried 
out  uncontrollably.  He  cursed  Mrs.  Caley  sav 
agely  under  his  breath,  "Can't  you  drive,"  he  asked; 
"can't  you?" 

The  ascent  to  the  crown  of  the  ridge  was  rough, 
but  beyond,  winding  down  to  the  Greenstream  valley, 

[261] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

it  was  worse.  The  buggy,  badly  hitched,  bumped 
against  the  flank  of  the  horse,  twisted  over  exposed 
boulders,  brought  up  suddenly  in  the  gutters  cut  di 
agonally  by  the  spring  torrents.  Gordon  Makim- 
mon  forgot  everything  else  in  the  sole  desire  to  get 
Lettice  safely  to  their  house.  He  endeavored,  by 
shifting  her  position,  to  reduce  the  jarring  of  the 
uneven  progress.  He  realized  that  she  was  in  a 
continual  agony,  and,  in  that  new  ability  to  share  it 
through  the  dawning  consciousness  of  its  brute  ac 
tuality  in  Lettice,  it  roused  in  him  an  impotent  fury 
of  rebellion.  It  took  the  form  of  an  increasing  pas 
sion  of  anger  at  the  inanimate  stones  of  the  road, 
against  Mrs.  Caley's  meager  profile  on  the  dusty 
hood  of  the  buggy.  He  whispered  enraged  oaths, 
worked  himself  into  an  insanity  of  temper.  Lettice 
grew  rigid  in  his  arms.  For  a  while  she  iterated 
dully,  like  the  beating  of  a  sluggish  heart  "bad  .  .  . 
bad  .  .  .  bad."  Then  dread  wiped  all  other  ex 
pression  from  her  face;  then,  again,  pain  pinched 
her  features. 

The  buggy  creaked  down  the  decline  to  their 
dwelling.  Gordon  supported  Lettice  to  their  room; 
then  he  stood  on  the  porch  without,  waiting.  The 
rugged  horse,  still  hitched,  snatched  with  coarse,  yel 
low  teeth  at  the  grass.  Suddenly  Mrs.  Caley  ap 
peared  at  a  door:  she  spoke,  breaking  the  irascible 

[262] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

silence  of  months,  dispelling  the  accumulating  ill- 
will  of  her  pent  resentment,  with  hasty,  disjointed 
words : 

".  .  .  quick  as  you  can  .  .  .  the  doctor." 


[263] 


XIX 

A  HOARSE,  thin  cry  sounded  from  within 
the  Makimmon  dwelling.  It  fluctuated 
with  intolerable  pain  and  died  abruptly 
away,  instantly  absorbed  in  the  brooding  calm  of  the 
valley,  lost  in  the  vast,  indifferent  serenity  of  noon. 
But  its  echo  persisted  in  Gordon's  thoughts  and  emo 
tions.  He  was  sitting  by,  the  stream,  before  his 
house;  and,  as  the  cry  had  risen,  he  had  moved 
suddenly,  as  though  an  invisible  hand  had  touched 
him  upon  the  shoulder.  He  sat  reflected  on  the  slid 
ing  water  against  the  reflection  of  the  far,  blue  sky. 
One  idea  ran  in  a  circle  through  his  brain,  his  lips 
formed  it  soundlessly,  he  even  spoke  it  aloud: 

"It  ain't  as  though  I  had  gone,"  he  said. 

The  possible  consequence  to  Lettice  of  what  had 
been  a  mere  indecision  seemed  to  him  out  of  any 
proportion.  No,  he  thought,  I  wouldn't  have  gone 
when  the  time  came;  when  the  minute  came  I'd  have 
held  back.  Then  again,  it  ain't  as  though  I  had 
gone.  A  species  of  surprise  alternated  with  resent 
ment  at  the  gravity  of  the  situation  which  had  re 
sulted  from  his  indiscreet  conduct;  the  agony  of  that 
cry  from  within  the  house  was  too  deep  to  have  pro- 

[264] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

ceeded  from  ...  it  wasn't  as  though  he  had  gone 
...  he  wouldn't  have  gone,  anyway. 

He  heard  footsteps  on  the  porch,  and  turned,  rec 
ognizing  Doctor  Pelliter.  He  half  rose  to  go  to  the 
other  with  an  inquiry;  but  he  dropped  quickly  back 
on  the  bank,  looked  away. — Some  time  before  the 
doctor  had  tied  a  towel  about  his  waist  ...  it  had 
been  a  white  towel. 

His  mind  returned  to  Lettice  and  the  terrible 
mischance  that  had  been  brought  upon  her;  that  he 
had  brought  on  her.  He  tested  the  latter  clause, 
and  attempted  to  reject  it:  he  had  done  nothing  to 
provoke  such  a  terrible  actuality.  He  rehearsed  the 
entire  chain  of  events  which  had  resulted  in  the  pur 
chase  of  the  pearl  necklace;  he  followed  it  as  far 
back  as  the  evening  when,  from  the  minister's  lawn, 
he  had  seen  Meta  Beggs  undressing  at  her  window. 
He  could  nowhere  discover  any  desperate  wrong 
committed.  He  knew  men,  plenty  of  them,  who 
were  actually  unfaithful  to  their  wives:  he  had  done 
nothing  of  that  sort.  He  endeavored  to  grow  in 
furiated  with  Meta  Beggs,  then  with  Mrs.  Caley;  he 
endeavored  to  place  upon  them  the  responsibility  for 
that  attenuated,  agonized  sound  from  the  house ;  but 
without  success.  He  had  made  a  terrible  blunder. 
But,  in  a  universe  where  the  slightest  fairness  ruled, 
he  and  not  Lettice  would  pay  for  an  error  purely  his 
own. 

[265] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

Lattice  was  so  young,  he  realized  suddenly. 

He  recalled  her  as  she  sat  alone,  under  the  lamp, 
with  her  shawl  about  her  shuddering  shoulders,  wait 
ing  for  the  inevitable,  begging  him  to  assure  her  that 
it  would  be  all  right.  It  would,  of  course,  be  all 
right  in  the  end.  It  must !  Then  things  would  be 
different.  He  made  himself  no  extravagant  prom 
ises  of  reform,  no  fevered  reproaches;  but  things 
would  be  different. — He  would  take  Lettice  driving ; 
he  had  the  prettiest  young  wife  in  Greenstream,  and 
he  would  show  people  that  he  realized  it.  She  had 
been  Lettice  Hollidew,  the  daughter  of  old  Pompey, 
the  richest  man  in  the  county. 

The  importance  of  that  latter  fact  had  dimmed; 
the  omnipotence  of  money  had  dwindled:  for  in 
stance,  any  conceivable  sum  would  be  powerless  to 
still  that  cry  from  within.  In  a  way  it  had  risen 
from  the  very  fact  of  Pompey  Hollidew's  fortune — 
Meta  Beggs  would  never  have  considered  him  aside 
from  it.  He  endeavored  to  curse  the  old  man's 
successful  avarice,  but  without  any  satisfaction. 
Every  cause  contributing  to  the  present  impending 
catastrophe  led  directly  back  to  himself,  to  his  in 
decision.  The  responsibility,  closing  about  him, 
seemed  to  shut  out  the  air  from  his  vicinity,  to  make 
labored  his  breathing.  He  put  out  a  hand,  as 
though  to  ward  off  the  inimical  forces  everywhere 
pressing  upon  him.  He  had  seen  suffering  before 

[266] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

— what  man  had  not? — but  this  was  different;  this 
i unsettled  the  foundations  of  his  being;  it  found  him 
vulnerable  where  he  had  never  been  vulnerable  be 
fore;  he  shrunk  from  it  as  he  would  shrink  from 
i  touching  a  white-hot  surface.  He  was  afraid 
.of  it. 

He  thought  of  the  ghastly  activities  inside  the 
house;  they  haunted  him  in  confused,  horrid  details 
amid  which  Lettice  suffered  and  cried  out. 

He  was  unaware  of  the  day  wheeling  splendidly 
through  its  golden  hours,  of  the  sun  swinging  across 
the  narrow  rift  of  the  valley.  At  long  intervals  he 
heard  muffled  hoof-beats  passing  on  the  dusty  road 
above.  He  watched  a  trout  slip  lazily  out  from  un 
der  the  bank,  and  lie  headed  upstream,  slowly  wav 
ing  its  fins.  It  recalled  the  trout  he  had  left  on  the 
porch  of  Hollidew's  farmhouse  on  the  night  when  he 
had  attempted  to  ...  seduce  .  .  .  Lettice ! 

The  details  of  that  occasion  returned  vivid,  com 
plete,  unsparing.  It  was  a  memory  profoundly  re 
grettable  because  of  an  obscure  connection  with  Let- 
tice's  present  danger;  it  too — although  he  was  un 
able  to  discover  why  it  should — took  on  the  dark 
aspect  of  having  helped  to  bring  the  other  about. 
As  the  memory  of  that  night  recurred  to  him  he  be 
came  conscious  of  an  obscure,  traitorous  force  lurk 
ing  within  him,  betraying  him,  leading  his  com 
placency  into  foolish  and  fatal  paths,  into  paths 

[267] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

which  totally  misrepresented  him.  .  .  .  He  would 
not  really  have  gone  away  with  Meta  Beggs. 

He  was  a  better  man  than  all  this  would  indicate! 
Yet — consider  the  result;  he  might  as  well  have 
committed  a  foul  crime.  But,  in  the  end,  it  would  be 
all  right.  Doctors  always  predicted  the  darkest  pos 
sibilities. 

He  turned  and  saw  Doctor  Pelliter  striding  up  the 
slope  to  where  his  team  was  hitched  on  the  public 
road.  A  swift  resentment  swept  over  Gordon  Ma- 
kimmon  as  he  realized  that  the  other  had  purposely 
avoided  him.  He  rose  to  demand  attention,  to  call; 
but,  instinctively,  he  stifled  his  voice.  The  doctor 
stopped  at  the  road,  and  saw  him.  Gordon  waved 
toward  the  house,  and  the  other  nodded  curtly. 


[268] 


XX 

HE  passed  through  the  dining  room  to  the 
inner  doorway,  where  he  brushed  by  Mrs. 
Caley.     Her    face    was    as    harsh    and 
twisted  as  an  old  root.     He  proceeded  directly  to  the 
bed. 

"Lettice,"  he  said;  "Lettice." 

Then  he  saw  the  appalling  futility  of  addressing 
that  familiar  name  to  the  strange  head  on  the  pil 
low. 

Lettice  had  gone:  she  had  been  destroyed  as  ut 
terly  as  though  a  sinister  and  ruthless  magic  had 
blasted  every  infinitesimal  quality  that  had  been 
hers.  A  countenance  the  color  of  glazed  white  paper 
seemed  to  hold  pools  of  ink  in  the  hollows  of  its  eyes. 
The  drawn  mouth  was  the  color  of  stale  milk. 
Nothing  remained  to  summon  either  pity  or  sorrow. 
The  only  possible  emotion  in  the  face  of  that  revolt 
ing  human  disaster  was  an  incredulous  and  shocked 
surprise.  It  struck  like  a  terrible  jest,  a  terrible, 
icy  reminder,  into  the  forgetful  warmth  of  living; 
it  mocked  at  the  supposed  majesty  of  suffering, 
tore  aside  the  assumed  dignity,  the  domination,  of 

[269] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

men;  it  tampered  ferociously  with  the  beauty,  the 
pride,  the  innocent  and  gracious  pretensions,  of 
youth,  of  women. 

Gordon  Makimmon  was  conscious  of  an  over 
whelming  desire  to  flee  from  the  white  grimace  on 
the  bed  that  had  been  Lettice's  and  his.  He  drew 
back,  in  a  momentary,  abject,  shameful  cowardice; 
then  he  forced  himself  to  return.  .  .  .  The  fleering 
lips  quivered,  there  was  a  slight  stir  under  the  coun 
terpane.  A  little  sound  gathered,  shaped  into  words 
barely  audible  in  the  stillness  of  the  room  broken 
only  by  Gordon's  breathing: 

"It's  ...  too  much.  Not  any  more  .  .  .  hurt 
ing.  Oh !  I  can't—" 

He  found  a  chair,  and  sat  down  by  her  side.  The 
palms  of  his  hands  were  wet,  and  he  wiped  them 
upon  his  knees.  His  fear  of  the  supine  figure  grew, 
destroying  the  arrogance  of  his  manhood,  his  sen 
tient  reason.  He  was  afraid  of  what  it  intimated, 
threatened,  for  himself,  and  of  its  unsupportable 
mockery.  He  felt  as  an  animal  might  feel  cor 
nered  by  a  hugely  grim  and  playful  cruelty. 

The  westering  sun  fell  through  a  window  on  the 
disordered  huddle  of  Lettice's  hastily  discarded 
clothes  streaming  from  a  chair  to  the  floor — her 
stockings,  her  chemise  threaded  with  a  narrow  blue 
ribband.  His  thoughts  turned  to  the  little  white 
garments  she  had  fashioned  in  vain,, 

[270] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

It  had  been  wonderfully  comfortable  in  the  even 
ing  in  the  sitting  room  with  Lettice  sewing.  He 
recalled  the  time  when  he  had  first  played  the  phono 
graph  in  order  to  hear  the  dog  "sing."  Lettice  had 
cried  out,  imploring  him  to  stop;  well — he  had 
stopped,  hadn't  he?  The  delayed  realization  of  her 
patience  of  misery  rankled  like  a  barb.  The  wan 
dering  thoughts  returned  to  the  long  fabrication  he 
had  told  her  of  the  loss  of  his  money  in  Stenton, 
of  the  fictitious  agent  of  hardware.  He  had  snared 
the  girl  in  a  net  of  such  lies;  scornful  of  Lettice's 
innocence,  her  "stupid"  trust,  he  had  brought  her  to 
this  ruinous  pass.  It  hadn't  been  necessary. 

The  window  was  open,  and  a  breath  of  early  sum 
mer  drifted  in — a  breath  of  palpable  sweetness. 
Mrs.  Caley  entered  and  bent  over  the  bed,  an  an 
gular,  black  silhouette  against  the  white.  She  left 
without  a  word. 

If  Lettice  died  he,  Gordon  Makimmon,  would 
have  killed  her,  he  had  killed  more  ...  he  recog 
nized  that  clearly.  The  knowledge  spread  through 
him  like  a  virus,  thinning  his  blood,  attacking  his 
brain,  his  nerves.  He  lifted  a  shaking  hand  to  wipe 
his  brow;  and,  for  a  brief  space,  his  arm  remained  in 
air;  it  looked  as  though  he  were  gazing  beneath  a 
shielding  palm  at  a  far  prospect.  The  arm  dropped 
suddenly  to  his  side,  the  fingers  struck  dully  against 
the  chair.  He  heard  again  the  muffled  beat  -of 

[271] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

horse's  hoofs  on  the  road  above;  the  sun  moved 
slowly  over  the  narrow,  gay  strips  of  rag  carpet  on 
the  floor:  life  went  on  elsewhere. 

His  fear  changed  to  loathing,  to  absolute,  sick  re 
pulsion  from  all  the  facts  of  his  existence.  With 
the  passing  minutes  the  lines  deepened  on  his  hag 
gard  countenance,  his  expression  perceptibly  aged. 
The  stubble  of  beard  that  had  grown  since  the  day 
before  grizzled  his  lean  jaw;  the  confident  line  of 
his  shoulders,  of  his  back,  was  bowed. 

He  looked  up  with  a  start  to  find  the  doctor  once 
more  in  the  room.  He  rose.  "Doc,"  he  asked  in 
a  strained  whisper,  "Doc,  will  it  be  all  right?"  He 
wet  his  lips.  "Will  she  live?" 

"You  needn't  whisper,"  the  other  told  him;  "she 
doesn't  know  .  .  .  now.  'Will  she  live?'  I  can 
only  tell  you  that  she  wanted  to  die  a  thousand 
times." 

Gordon  turned  away,  looking  out  through  the  win 
dow.  It  gave  upon  the  slope  planted  with  corn;  the 
vivid,  green  shoots  everywhere  pushed  through  the 
chocolate-colored  soil;  chickens  were  vigorously 
scratching  in  a  corner.  The  shadow  of  the  west 
range  reached  down  and  enfolded  the  Makimmon 
dwelling ;  the  sky  burned  in  a  sulphur-yellow  flame. 
When  he  turned  the  doctor  had  vanished,  the  room 
had  grown  dusky.  He  resumed  his  seat. 

"I  didn't  do  right,"  he  acknowledged  to  the  trav- 
[272] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

esty  on  the  bed;  "there  was  a  good  bit  I  didn't  get 
the  hang  of.  It  seems  like  I  hadn't  learned  any 
thing  at  all  from  being  alive.  I'm  going  to  fix  it 
up,"  he  proceeded,  painfully  earnest.  "I'm — " 
He  broke  off  suddenly  at  the  stabbing  memory  of 
the  doctor's  words,  "She  wanted  to  die  a  thousand 
times."  He  thought,  I've  killed  her  a  thousand 
times  already.  The  fear  plucked  at  his  throat.  He 
rose  and  walked  unsteadily  to  the  door  and  out  upon 
the  porch. 

The  evening  drew  its  gauze  over  the  valley,  the 
shrill,  tenuous  chorus  of  insects  had  begun  for  the 
night,  the  gold  caps  were  dissolving  from  the  easterri 
peaks.  He  saw  Simeon  Caley  at  the  stable  door; 
Sim  avoided  him,  moving  behind  a  corner  of  the 
shed.  His  pending  sense  of  blood-guiltiness  deep 
ened.  The  impulse  returned  to  flee,  to  vanish  in  the 
engulfing  wild  of  the  mountains.  But  he  realized 
vaguely  that  that  from  which  he  longed  to  escape 
lay  within  him,  he  would  carry  it — the  memories 
woven  inexplicably  of  past  and  present,  dominated 
by  this  last,  unforgettable  specter  on  the  bed — into 
the  woods,  the  high,  lonely  clearings,  the  still  valleys. 
It  was  not  remorse  now,  it  was  not  simple  fear,  but 
the  old  oppression,  increased  a  thousand-fold. 

He  sat  in  the  low  rocking  chair  that  had  held 
his  mother  and  Clare,  and,  only  yesterday,  Lettice, 
and  its  rockers  made  their  familiar  tracking  sound 

[273] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

over  the  uneven  boards  of  the  porch.  At  this  hour 
there  was  usually  a  stir  and  smell  of  cooking  from 
the  kitchen ;  but  now  the  kitchen  window  was  blank 
and  still.  Darkness  gathered  slowly  about  him;  it 
obscured  the  black  and  white  check,  the  red  thread, 
of  his  suit;  it  flowed  in  about  him  and  reduced  him 
to  the  common  greyness  of  the  porch,  the  sod,  the 
stream.  It  changed  him  from  a  man  with  a  puzzled, 
seamed  visage  into  a  man  with  no  especial,  percep 
tible  features,  and  then  into  a  shadow,  an  inconse 
quential  blur  less  important  than  the  supports  for 
the  wooden  covering  above. 


[274] 


XXI 

AFTER  a  while  he  rose,  impelled  once  more 
within.  A  lamp  had  been  lit  in  the  bed 
room,  and,  in  its  radiance,  the  countenance 
on  the  pillow  glistened  like  the  skin  of  a  lemon.  As 
before,  Mrs.  Caley  left  the  room  as  he  entered ;  and 
he  thought  that,  as  she  passed  him,  she  snarled  like 
an  animal. 

He  sat  bowed  by  the  bed.  A  moth  perished  in 
the  flame  of  the  lamp,  and  the  light  flickered  through 
the  room — it  seemed  that  Lettice  grimaced,  but  it 
was  only  the  other.  Her  face  had  grown  sharper: 
it  was  such  a  travesty  of  her  that,  somehow,  he 
ceased  to  associate  it  with  Lettice  at  all.  Instead 
he  began  to  think  of  it  as  something  exclusively  of 
his  own  making — it  was  what  he  had  done  with 
things,  with  life. 

The  sheet  lay  over  the  motionless  body  like  a  thin 
covering  of  snow  on  the  turnings  of  the  earth;  it 
defined  her  breasts  and  a  hip  as  crisply  as  though 
they  were  cut  in  marble  effigy  on  a  tomb  of  youthful 
dissolution.  He  followed  the  impress  of  an  arm  to 
the  hand;  and,  leaning  forward,  touched  it,  A 

[275] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

coldness  seemed  to  come  through  the  cover  to  his  fin 
gers.  He  let  his  hand  stay  upon  hers — perhaps  the 
warmth  would  flow  back  into  the  cold  arm,  the  chill 
heart;  perhaps  he  could  give  her  some  of  his  vitality. 
The  possibility  afforded  him  a  meager  comfort,  in 
stilled  a  faint  glow  into  his  benumbed  being.  His 
hand  closed  upon  that  covered  by  the  linen  like  a 
shroud.  He  sat  rigid,  concentrated,  in  his  effort, 
his  purpose.  The  light  flickered  again  from  the 
fiery  perishing  of  a  second  moth. 

A  strange  feeling  crept  over  him,  a  deepened  sense 
of  suspense,  of  imminence.  He  fingered  his  throat, 
and  his  hand  was  icy  where  it  touched  his  burning 
face.  He  stood  up  in  an  increasing,  nameless  dis 
turbance. 

A  faint  spasm  crossed  the  drained  countenance  be 
neath  him;  the  mouth  fell  open. 

He  knew  suddenly  that  Lettice  was  dead. 

There  her  clothes  lay  strewn  on  the  chair  and 
floor,  the  long,  black  stockings  and  the  rumpled 
chemise  strung  with  narrow  blue  ribband.  She  had 
worn  them  on  her  warm,  young  body;  she  had  tied 
the  ribband  in  the  morning  and  untied  it  at  night, 
untied  it  at  night  ...  it  was  night  now. 

A  slow,  exhausted  deliberation  of  mind  and  act 
took  the  place  of  his  late  panic.  He  smoothed  the 
sheet  where  he  had  grasped  her  hand  in  the  futile 
endeavor  to  instil  into  her  some  of  his  warmth. 

[276] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

He  gazed  at  her  for  a  moment,  at  the  shadows  like 
pools  of  ink  poured  into  the  caverns  of  her  eyes,  at 
a  glint  of  teeth  no  whiter  than  the  rest,  at  the  dark 
plait  of  her  hair  lying  sinuously  over  the  pillow. 
Then  he  went  to  the  door: 

"Mrs.  Caley,"  he  pronounced.  The  woman  ap 
peared  in  the  doorway  from  the  kitchen.  "Mrs. 
Caley,"  he  repeated,  "Lettice  is  dead." 

She  started  forward  with  a  convulsive  gasp,  and 
he  turned  aside  and  walked  heavily  out  onto  the 
porch.  He  stood  for  a  moment  gazing  absently  into 
the  darkened  valley,  at  the  few  lights  of  Greenstream 
village,  the  stars  like  clusters  of  silver  grapes 
on  high,  ultra-blue  arbors.  The  whippoorwills 
throbbed  from  beyond  the  stream,  the  stream  itself 
whispered  in  a  pervasive  monotone.  The  first 
George  Gordon  MacKimmon,  resting  on  the  porch 
of  his  new  house  isolated  in  the  alien  wild,  had  heard 
the  whippoorwills  and  the  stream.  Gordon's  fa 
ther  had  heard  them  just  as  he,  the  present  Makim- 
mon,  heard  them  sounding  in  the  night.  But  no 
other  Makimmon  would  ever  listen  to  the  persistent 
birds,  the  eternal  whisper  of  the  water,  because  he, 
the  last,  had  killed  his  wife  ...  he  had  killed 
their  child. 

He  trod  down  the  creaking  steps  to  the  soft,  fra 
grant  sod,  and  made  his  way  to  where  a  thread  of 
light  outlined  the  stable  door.  Sim  was  seated  on 

[277] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

a  box,  the  lantern  at  his  feet  casting  a  pale  flicker 
over  his  riven  face  and  the  horse  muzzling  the 
trough.  Gordon  sat  down  upon  the  broken  chair. 

"She's  dead,"  he  said,  after  a  minute.  Simeon 
Caley  made  no  immediate  reply,  and  he  repeated  in 
exactly  the  same  manner: 

"She's  dead." 

A  sudden  bitterness  of  contempt  flamed  in  the 
other's  ineffable  blue  eyes.  "God  damn  you  to 
hell!"  he  exclaimed;  "now  you  got  the  money  and 
nothing  to  hinder  you." 

His  resentment  vanished  as  quickly  as  it  had  ap 
peared.  He  rose  and  picked  up  the  lantern,  and 
with  their  puny  illumination  they  went  out  together 
into  the  dark. 


[2781 


THREE 


ON  an  afternoon  of  the  second  autumn  fol 
lowing  Lettice's  death  Gordon  was  fetch 
ing  home  a  headstall  resewn  by  Peterman. 
The  latter,  in  a  small  shed  filled  with  the  penetrating 
odor  of  dressed  leather  at  the  back  of  the  hotel,  ex 
ercised  the  additional  trade  of  saddler.     General 
Jackson  ambled  at  Gordon's  heel. 

The  dog  had  grown  until  his  shoulder  reached 
the  man's  knee;  he  was  compact  and  powerful,  with 
a  long,  heavy  jaw  and  pronounced,  grave  whiskers; 
the  wheaten  color  of  his  legs  and  head  had  lightened, 
sharply  defining  the  coarse  black  hair  upon  his  back. 
October  was  drawing  to  a  close:  the  autumn  had 
been  dry,  and  the  foliage  was  not  brilliantly  colored, 
but  exhibited  a  single  shade  of  dusty  brown  that, 
in  the  sun,  took  the  somber  gleams  of  clouded  gold. 
*  It  was  warm  still,  but  a  furtive  wind,  stirring  the 
dead  leaves  uneasily  over  the  ground,  was  momenta 
rily  ominous,  chill. 

The  limp  rim  of  a  felt  hat  obscured  Gordon's 
features,  out  of  the  shadow  of  which  protruded 
his  lean,  sharp  chin.  His  heavy  shoes,  hastily 

[281] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

scraped  of  mud,  bore  long  cuts  across  the  heels, 
while  shapeless  trousers,  a  coat  with  gaping  pockets, 
hung  loosely  about  his  thin  body  and  bowed  shoul 
ders.  He  passed  the  idlers  before  the  office  of  the 
Bugle  with  a  scarcely  perceptible  nod;  but,  farther 
on,  he  stopped  before  a  solitary  figure  advancing 
over  the  narrow  footway. 

It  was  Buckley  Simmons.  He  was  noticeably 
smaller  since  his  injury  at  the  camp  meeting;  he  had 
shrivelled;  his  face  was  peaked  and  wrinkled  like 
the  face  of  a  very  old  man;  the  shadows  in  the 
sunken  cheeks  did  not  resemble  those  on  living  skin, 
but  were  dry  and  dusty  like  the  autumn  leaves.  His 
gaze  was  fixed  upon  the  ground  at  his  feet;  but,  as 
he  drew  up  to  Gordon,  he  raised  his  head. 

Into  the  dullness  of  his  eyes,  his  slack  lips,  crept  a 
dim  recognition;  among  the  ashes  of  his  conscious 
ness  a  spark  glowed — a  single,  live  coal  of  bitter 
hate. 

"How  are  you,  Buckley?"  Gordon  pronounced 
slowly. 

The  other's  hands  clenched  as  the  wave  of 
emotion  crossed  the  blank  countenance.  Then  the 
hands  relaxed,  the  face  was  again  empty.  He  con 
tinued,  oblivious  of  Gordon's  salutation,  of  his  pres 
ence,  upon  his  way. 

Gordon  Makimmon  stood  for  a  moment  gazing 
[282] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

after  him.  Then,  as  he  turned,  he  saw  that  there 
was  a  small  group  of  men  on  the  Courthouse  lawn; 
he  saw  the  sheriff  standing  facing  them  from  the 
steps,  gesticulating. 


[283] 


II 

THE  purpose  of  this  gathering  was  instantly 
apparent  to  him,  it  stirred  obscure  mem 
ories  into  being. — A  property  was  being 
publicly  sold  for  debt. 

The  trooping  thoughts  of  the  past  filled  his  mind ; 
thoughts,  it  seemed  to  him,  of  another  than  himself. 
Surely  it  had  been  another  Gordon  Makimmon  that, 
sitting  before  the  Bugle  office,  had  heard  the  sheriff 
enumerating  the  scant  properties  of  the  old  freehold 
by  the  stream  to  satisfy  the  insatiable  greed  of 
Valentine  Simmons.  It  had  been  a  younger  man 
than  himself  by  fifteen  years.  Yet,  actually,  it  had 
been  scarcely  more  than  three  years  since  the  store 
keeper  had  had  him  sold  out. 

That  other  Makimmon  had  been  a  man  of  in 
credibly  vivid  interests  and  emotions.  Now  it  ap 
peared  to  him  that,  in  all  the  world,  there  was  not  a 
cause  for  feeling,  not  an  incentive  to  rouse  the  mind 
from  apathy. 

Stray  periods  reached  him  from  the  sheriff's  re 
counting  of  "a  highly  desirable  piece  of  property." 
His  loud,  flat  voice  had  not  changed  by  an  inflection 

[284] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

since  he  had  "called  out"  Gordon's  home;  the 
i merely  curious  or  materially  interested  onlookers 
were  the  same,  the  dragging  bidding  had,  appar 
ently,  continued  unbroken  from  the  other  occasion. 
The  dun,  identical  repetition  added  to  the  over 
whelming  sense  of  universal  monotony  in  Gordon 
Makimmon's  brain.  He  turned  at  the  corner,  by 
Simmons7  store,  while  the  memories  faded;  the  cus 
tomary  greyness,  like  a  formless  drift  of  cloud  ob 
scuring  a  mountain  height,  once  more  descended 
upon  him. 

At  the  back  of  the  store  a  small  open  space  was 
filled  with  broken  crates,  straw  and  boxes — the 
debris  of  unpacking.  And  there  he  saw  a  youthful 
woman  sitting  with  her  head  turned  partially  from 
the  road.  As  he  passed  a  suppressed  sob  shook  her. 
It  captured  his  attention,  and,  with  a  slight,  in 
voluntary  gasp,  he  saw  her  face.  The  memories 
returned  in  a  tumultuous,  dark  tide — she  reminded 
him  vividly  of  Lettice.  It  was  in  the  young  curve 
of  her  cheeks,  the  blue  of  her  eyes,  and  a  sameness 
of  rounded  proportions,  that  the  resemblance  lay. 

He  stopped,  without  formulated  reason,  and  in 
spite  of  her  obvious  desire  for  him  to  proceed. 

"It's  hardly  fit  to  sit  here  and  cry  before  the  whole 
County,"  he  observed. 

"The  whole  County  knows,"  she  returned  in  the 
egotism  of  youthful  misery. 

[285] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

Her  voice,  too,  was  like  Lettice's — sweet  with 
the  premonition  of  the  querulous  note  that,  Ruther 
ford  Berry  had  once  said,  distinguished  all  good 
women. 

A  sudden  intuition  directed  his  gaze  upon  the 
Courthouse  lawn. 

"They're  selling  you  out/'  he  hazarded,  "for 
debt." 

She  nodded,  with  trembling  lips.  "Cannon  is," 
she  specified. 

Cannon  was  the  storekeeper  for  whom  his  broth 
er-in-law  clerked.  He  thought  again,  how  monot 
onous,  how  everlastingly  alike,  life  was.  "You  just 
let  the  amount  run  on  and  on,"  he  continued;  "you 
got  this  and  that.  Then,  suddenly,  Cannon  wanted 
his  money." 

Her  eyes  opened  widely  at  his  prescience.  "But 
there  was  sickness  too,"  she  added;  "the  baby  died." 

"Ah,"  Gordon  said  curtly.  The  lines  in  his  worn 
face  deepened,  his  mouth  was  inscrutable. 

"If  it  hadn't  been  for  that,"  she  confided,  "we 
could  have  got  through.  Everything  had  started 
fine.  Alexander's  father  had  left  him  the  place: 
there  isn't  a  better  in  the  Bottom.  Alexander  says 
Mr.  Cannon  has  always  wanted  it.  Now  .  .  . 
now  .  .  ."  her  blue  gaze  blurred  with  slow  tears. 

Her  similarity  to  Lettice  grew  still  more  appar 
ent — she  presented  the  same  order,  her  white  shirt- 

[286] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

waist  had  been  crisply  ironed,  her  shoes  were  rubbed 
bright  and  neatly  tied.  He  recalled  this  similitude 
suddenly,  and  it  brought  before  him  a  clearly  defined 
vision  of  Lettice,  not  as  his  wife,  but  of  the  girl  he 
lad  driven  to  and  from  the  school  at  Stenton.  He 
lad  not  thought  of  that  Lettice  for  months,  for  three 
years;  not  since  before  she  had  died;  not,  he  cor 
rected  himself  drearily,  since  he  had  killed  her. 
He  had  remembered  the  last  phase,  of  the  glazed  and 
Bloodless  travesty  of  her  youth.  But  even  that 
lately  had  been  lost  in  the  fog  of  nothingness  settling 
down  upon  him. 

And  now  this  girl,  on  a  box  back  of  Simmons' 
store,  brought  the  buried  memories  back  into  light. 
They  disconcerted  him,  sweeping  through  the  lassi 
tude  of  his  mind;  they  stirred  shadowy  specters  of 
fear.  .  .  .  The  voice  of  the  sheriff  carried  to  them, 
describing  the  excellent  repair  of  incidental  sheds. 

"I  nailed  all  the  tar-paper  on  the — the  chicken 
house,"  she  told  him  in  a  fresh  accession  of  unhap- 
piness,  the  tears  spilling  over  her  round,  flushed 
cheeks. 

It  annoyed  him  to  see  her  cry:  it  was  as  though 
Lettice  was  suffering  again  from  old  misery.  His 
irritation  grew  at  this  seeming  renewal  of  what  had 
gone;  it  assumed  the  aspect  of  an  intentional  re 
proach,  of  Lettice  returned  to  bother  him  with  her 
pain  and  death.  He  turned  sharply  to  continue  on 

[287] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

his   way.     But,   almost  immediately,   he  stopped. 

"Your  name?"  he  demanded. 

"Adelaide  Crandall." 

The  Crandalls,  he  knew,  were  a  reputable  family 
living  in  the  valley  bottom  east  of  Greenstream  vil 
lage.  Matthew  Crandall  had  died  a  few  years  be 
fore,  and,  as  this  girl  had  indicated,  had  left  a  sub 
stantial  farm  to  each  of  his  sons.  Cannon  would 
get  this  one,  and  it  was  more  than  probable,  the 
others. 

The  old  enmity  against  Valentine  Simmons,  di 
rected  at  Cannon,  flamed  afresh.  Simmons  or  the 
other — what  did  the  name  matter?  they  were  the 
same,  a  figurative  apple  press  crushing  the  juice  out 
of  the  country,  leaving  but  a  mash  of  hopes  and 
lives.  He  stood  irresolute,  while  Adelaide  Crandall 
fought  to  control  her  emotions. 

The  badgering  voice  of  the  sheriff  sounded  again 
on  his  hearing.  He  crossed  the  road,  pushed  open 
the  grinding  iron  gate  of  the  fence  that  enclosed  the 
Courthouse  lawn,  and  made  his  way  through  the 
sere,  fallen  leaves  to  the  steps. 


[288] 


m 


Ill 

"fTflWENTY-SEVEN  hundred  and  ninety 
dollars,"  the  sheriff  reiterated;  "only 
twenty-seven  ninety  .  .  .  this  fine  bottom 
land,  all  cleared  and  buildings  in  best  repair.  Go 
ing!  Going!" 

"Three  thousand,"  a  man  called  from  the  group 
facing  the  columned  portico. 

'Three  thousand !  Three  thousand !  Sale  must 
be  made.  Going — " 

"Thirty-one  hundred,"  Gordon  pronounced 
abruptly. 

A  stir  of  renewed  interest  animated  the  sale. 
Gordon  heard  his  name  pronounced  in  accents  of 
surprise.  He  was  surprised  at  himself:  his  bid  had 
been  unpremeditated — it  had  leaped  like  a  flash  of 
ignited  powder  out  of  the  resurrected  enmity  to  Val 
entine  Simmons,  out  of  the  memories  stirred  by  the 
figure  that  resembled  Lettice. 

The  sheriff  immediately  took  up  his  bid. 
"Thirty-one  hundred!  thirty-one,  gentlemen;  only 
thirty-one  for  this  fine  bottom  land,  all  cleared — " 

There  was  a  prolonged  pause  in  the  bidding,  dur- 
[289] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

ing  which  even  the  auctioneer  grew  apathetic.  He 
repeated  the  assertion  that  the  buildings  were  in  the 
best  repair;  then,  abruptly,  concluded  the  sale.  Gor 
don  had  purchased  the  farm  for  thirty-one  hundred 
dollars. 

He  despatched,  in  the  Courthouse,  the  necessary 
formalities.  When  he  emerged  the  group  on  the 
lawn  had  dwindled  to  three  people  conversing  in 
tently.  A  young  man  with  heavy  shoulders  already 
bowed,  clad  in  unaccustomed,  stiff  best  clothes,  ad 
vanced  to  meet  him. 

"Mr.  Makimmon,"  he  began;  "you  got  my 
place.  .  .  .  There's  none  better.  IVe  put  a  lot  of 
work  into  it.  I'll — I'll  get  my  things  out  soon's 
I  can.  If  you  can  give  me  some  time ;  my  wife — " 

"I  can  give  you  a  life,"  Gordon  replied  brusquely. 
He  walked  past  Alexander  Crandall  to  his  wife. 
She  turned  her  face  from  him.  He  said: 

"You  go  back  to  the  Bottom.  I've  fixed  Cannon 
.  .  .  this  time.  Tell  your  husband  he  can  pay  me 
when  it  suits ;  the  place  is  yours."  He  swung  on  his 
heel  and  strode  away. 


[290] 


IV 

THE  fitful  wind  had,  apparently,  driven  the 
warmth,  the  sun,  from  the  earth.  The 
mountains  rose  starkly  to  the  slaty  sky. 

Gordon  Makimmon  lighted  a  lamp  in  the  dining 
room  of  his  dwelling.  The  table  still  bore  a  red, 
fringed  cloth,  but  was  bare  of  all  else  save  the 
castor,  most  of  the  rings  of  which  were  empty.  The 
room  had  a  forlorn  appearance,  there  was  dust 
everywhere;  Gordon  had  pitched  the  headstall  into 
a  corner,  where  it  lay  upon  a  miscellaneous,  untidy 
pile. 

"I  reckon  you  want  something  to  eat,"  he  ob 
served  to  General  Jackson.  He  proceeded,  fol 
lowed  by  the  dog,  to  the  kitchen.  It  revealed  an 
appalling  disorder:  the  stove  was  spotted  with 
grease,  grey  with  settled  ashes;  a  pile  of  ashes  and 
broken  china  rose  beyond ;  on  the  other  side  coal  and 
wood  had  been  carelessly  stored.  A  table  was  laden 
with  unwashed  dishes,  unsavory  pots,  crusted  pans. 

Gordon  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  a  lamp 
in  his  hand,  surveying  the  repellent  confusion.  It 
had  accumulated  without  attracting  his  notice;  but 

[291] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

now,  suddenly  detached  from  the  aimless  procession 
of  the  past  months,  it  was  palpable  to  him,  unendur 
able.  "It's  not  fit  for  a  dog,"  he  pronounced. 

An  expression  of  determination  settled  on  his 
seamed  countenance;  he  took  off  his  coat  and  hung 
it  on  a  peg  in  the  door.  Outside,  by  an  ash-pit, 
he  found  a  bucket  and  half -buried  shovel.  A  min 
ute  after  the  kitchen  was  filled  with  grey  clouds  as 
he  shoveled  the  ashes  into  the  bucket  for  removal. 
He  worked  vigorously,  and  the  pile  soon  disap 
peared;  the  wood  and  coal  followed,  carried  out  to 
where  a  bin  was  built  against  the  house.  Then  he 
raked  the  fire  from  the  stove. 

It  was  cold  within,  but  Gordon  glowed  with  the 
heat  of  his  energy.  He  filled  a  basin  with  water, 
and,  with  an  old  brush  and  piece  of  sandsoap,  at 
tacked  the  stove.  He  scrubbed  until  the  surface 
exhibited  a  dull,  even  black;  then,  in  a  cupboard,  he 
discovered  an  old  box  of  stove  polish,  and  soon  the 
iron  was  gleaming  in  the  lamplight.  He  laid  and 
lit  a  fire,  put  on  a  tin  boiler  of  water  for  heating; 
and  then  carried  all  the  movables  into  the  night. 
After  which  he  fed  General  Jackson. 

He  flooded  the  kitchen  floor  and  scrubbed  and 
scraped  until  the  boards  were  immaculate.  Then, 
with  a  wet  towel  about  a  broom,  he  cleaned  the  walls 
and  ceiling;  he  washed  the  panes  of  window  glass. 
The  dishes  followed;  they  were  dried  and  ranged 

[292] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

in  rigid  rows  on  the  dresser;  the  pots  were  scoured 
and  placed  in  the  closets  underneath.  Now,  he 
thought  vindictively,  when  he  had  finished,  the 
kitchen  would  suit  even  Sim  Caley's  wife — the  old 
vinegar  bottle. 

The  Caleys  had  left  his  house  the  morning  fol 
lowing  Lettice's  funeral.  Mrs.  Caley  had  departed 
without  a  word;  Sim  with  but  a  brief,  awkward 
farewell.  Since  then  Gordon  had  lived  alone  in  the 
house ;  but  he  now  realized  that  it  was  not  desirable, 
practicable.  Things,  he  knew,  would  soon  return 
to  the  dirt  and  disorder  of  a  few  hours  ago.  He 
needed  some  one,  a  woman,  to  keep  the  place  decent. 
His  necessity  recalled  the  children  of  his  sister.  .  .  . 
There  was  only  Rose;  the  next  girl  was  too  young 
for  dependence.  The  former  had  been  married  a 
year  now,  and  had  a  baby.  Her  husband  had  been 
in  the  village  only  the  week  before  in  search  of  em 
ployment,  which  he  had  been  unable  to  secure,  and 
it  was  immaterial  where  in  the  County  they  lived. 


[293]! 


THE  couple  grasped  avidly  at  the  opportunity 
to  live  with  him.     The  youth  had  already 
evaporated  from  Rose's  countenance;   her 
minute  mouth  and  constantly  lifted  eyebrows  ex 
pressed  an  inwardly-gratifying  sense  of  superior 
ity,   an  effect   strengthened  by  her  thin,   affected 
speech.     Across  her  narrow  brow  a  fringe  of  hair 
fell  which  she  was  continually  crimping  with  an  iron 
heated  in  the  kitchen  stove,  permeating  the  room 
with  a  lingering  and  villainous  odor  of  burned  hair. 

William  Vibard  was  a  man  with  a  passion — the 
accordion.  He  arrived  with  the  instrument  in  a 
glossy  black  paper  box,  produced  it  at  the  first  op 
portunity,  and  sat  by  the  stove  drawing  it  out  to 
incredible  lengths  in  the  production  of  still  more 
incredible  sounds.  He  held  one  boxlike  end,  with 
its  metallic  stops,  by  his  left  ear,  while  his  right 
hand,  unfalteringly  fixed  in  the  strap  of  the  other 
end,  operated  largely  in  the  region  of  his  stomach. 

He  had  a  book  of  instructions  and  melodies 
printed  in  highly-simplified  and  explanatory  bars, 
which  he  balanced  on  his  knee  while  he  struggled  in 
their  execution. 

[294] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

He  was  a  youth  of  large,  palpable  bones,  joints 
and  knuckles ;  his  face  was  long  and  preternaturally 
pale,  and  bore  an  abstracted  expression  which  deep 
ened  almost  to  idiocy  when  bent  above  the  quavering, 
unaccountable  accordion. 

The  Vibard  baby  was  alarmingly  little,  with  a 
bluish  face ;  and,  as  if  in  protest  against  her  father's 
interminable  noise,  lay  wrapped  in  a  knitted  red 
blanket  without  a  murmur,  without  a  stir  of  her 
midgelike  form,  hour  upon  hour. 


[295] 


VI 

SOME  days  after  the  Vibards'  arrival  Gordon 
Makimmon  was  standing  by  the  stable  door, 
in  the  crisp  flood  of  midday,  when  an  un 
gainly  young  man  strode  about  the  corner  of  the 
dwelling  and  approached  him. 

"You're  Makimmon,"  he  half  queried,  half  as 
serted.  "I'm  Edgar  Crandall,  Alexander's 
brother."  He  took  off  his  hat,  and  passed  his  hand 
in  a  quick  gesture  across  his  brow.  He  had  close- 
cut,  vivid  red  hair  bristling  like  a  helmet  over  a 
long,  narrow  skull,  and  a  thrusting  grey  gaze.  "I 
came  to  see  you,"  he  continued,  "because  of  what 
you  did  for  Alec.  I  can't  make  out  just  what  it  was ; 
but  he  says  you  saved  his  farm,  pulled  it  right  out 
of  Cannon's  fingers,  and  that  you've  given  him  all 
the  time  he  needs  to  pay  it  back — "  He  paused. 
"Well,"  Gordon  responded,  "and  if  I  did?" 
"I  studied  over  it  at  first,"  the  other  frankly  ad 
mitted;  "I  thought  you  must  have  a  string  tied  to 
something.  I  know  Alexander's  place,  it's  a  good 
farm,  but  ...  I  studied  and  studied  until  I  saw 
there  couldn't  be  more  in  it  than  what  appeared.  I 
don't  know  why — " 

[296] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"Why  should  you?"  Gordon  interrupted 
brusquely,  annoyed  by  this  searching  into  the  reason 
for  his  purchase  of  the  farm,  into  the  region  of  his 
memories. 

"I  didn't  come  here  to  ask  questions,"  the  other 
quickly  assured  him;  "but  to  borrow  four  thousand 
dollars." 

"Why  not  forty?"  Gordon  asked  dryly. 

"Because  I  couldn't  put  it  out  at  profit,  now." 
Edgar  Crandall  ignored  the  other's  factitious  man 
ner:  "but  I  can  turn  four  over  two  or  three  times 
in  a  reasonable  period.  I  can't  give  you  any  secur 
ity,  everything's  covered  I  own;  that's  why  I  came 
to  you." 

"You  heard  I  was  a  fool  with  some  money?" 

"You  didn't  ask  any  security  of  Alexander,"  he 
retorted.  "No,  I  came  to  you  because  there  was 
something  different  in  what  you  did  from  all  I  had 
ever  known  before.  I  can't  tell  what  I  mean ;  it  had 
a— well,  a  sort  of  big  indifference  about  it.  It 
seemed  to  me  perhaps  life  hadn't  got  you  in  the  fix 
it  had  most  of  us;  that  you  were  free." 

"You  must  think  I'm  free — with  four  thousand 
dollars." 

"Apples,"  the  other  continued  resolutely.  "I've 
got  the  ground,  acres  of  prime  sunny  slope.  I've 
read  about  apple  growing  and  talked  to  men  who 
know.  I've  been  to  Albermarle  County.  I  can  do 

[297] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

the  same  thing  in  the  Bottom.  Ask  anybody  who 
knows  me  if  I'll  work.  I  can  pay  the  money  back 
all  right.  But,  if  I  know  you  from  what  you  did, 
that's  not  the  thing  to  talk  about  now. 

"I  want  a  chance,"  he  drove  a  knotted  fist  into 
a  hardened  palm;  "I  want  a  chance  to  bring  out 
what's  in  me  and  in  my  land.  I  want  my  own! 
The  place  came  to  me  clear,  with  a  little  money;  but 
I  wasn't  content  with  a  crop  of  fodder.  I  improved 
and  experimented  with  the  soil  till  I  found  out  what 
was  in  her.  Now  I  know;  but  I  can't  plant  a  sap 
ling,  I  can't  raise  an  apple,  without  binding  myself 
to  the  Cannons  and  Hollidews  of  the  County  for 
life. 

"I'd  be  their  man,  growing  their  fruit,  paying 
them  their  profits.  They  would  stop  at  the  fence, 
behind  their  span  of  pacers,  and  watch  me — their 
slave — sweating  in  the  field  or  orchard." 

"You  seem  to  think,"  Gordon  observed,  "that 
you  ought  to  have  some  special  favor,  that  what 
grinds  other  men  ought  to  miss  you.  Old  Pompey 
sold  out  many  a  better  man,  and  grabbed  richer 
farms.  And  anyhow,  if  I  was  to  money  all  that 
Cannon  and  Valentine  Simmons  got  hold  of  where 
would  I  be? — Here's  two  of  you  in  one  family,  inw 
no  time  at  all.  ...  If  that  got  about  I'd  have  five 
hundred  breaking  the  door  in." 

The  animation  died  from  Edgar  Crandall's  face; 
[298] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

he  pulled  his  hat  over  the  flaming  helmet  of  hair. 
"I  might  have  known  such  things  ain't  true,"  he 
said;  "it  was  just  a  freak  that  saved  Alec.  There's 
no  chance  for  a  man,  for  a  living,  in  these  dam' 
mountains.  They  look  big  and  open  and  free,  but 
Greenstream's  the  littlest,  meanest  place  on  the 
earth.  The  paper-shavers  own  the  sky  and  air. 
Well,  I'll  let  the  ground  rot,  I  won't  work  my  guts 
out  for  any  one  else." 

He  turned  sharply  and  disappeared  about  the 
corner  of  the  dwelling.  Gordon  moved  to  watch 
him  stride  up  the  slope  to  where  a  horse  was  tied 
by  the  public  road.  Crandall  swung  himself  into 
the  saddle,  brought  his  heels  savagely  into  the 
horse's  sides,  and  clattered  over  the  road. 

Gordon  Makimmon's  annoyance  quickly  evapo 
rated;  he  thought  with  a  measure  of  amusement  of 
the  impetuous  young  man  who  was  not  content  to 
grow  a  crop  of  fodder.  If  the  men  of  Greenstream 
all  resembled  Edgar  Crandall,  he  realized,  the  Can 
nons  would  have  an  uneasy  time.  He  thought  of 
the  brother,  Alexander,  of  Alexander's  wife,  who 
resembled  Lettice,  and  determined  to  drive  soon  to 
the  Bottom  and  see  them  and  the  farm.  He  would 
have  to  make  a  practicable  arrangement  with  regard 
to  the  latter,  secure  his  intention,  avoid  question,  by 
a  nominal  scheme  of  payment. 

[299] 


VII 

HE  knew,  generally,  where  Alexander  Cran- 
dall's  farm  lay;  and,  shortly  after,  drove 
through  the  village  and  mounted  the  road 
over  which  plied  the  Stenton  stage.  In  the  Bottom, 
beyond  the  east  range,  he  went  to  the  right  and 
passed  over  an  ill-defined  way  with  numerous  and 
deep  fords.  It  was  afternoon;  an  even,  sullen  ex 
panse  of  cloud  hid  the  deeps  of  sky  through  which 
the  sun  moved  like  a  newly-minted  silver  dollar.  A 
sharp  wind  drew  through  the  opening;  the  fallen 
leaves  rose  from  the  road  in  sudden,  agitated  whirl 
ing  ;  the  gaunt  branches,  printed  sharply  on  the  cur 
tain  of  cloud,  revealed  the  deserted  nests  of  past 
springs. 

He  drove  by  solitary  farms,  their  acres  lying  open 
and  dead  among  the  brush;  and  stopped,  undecided, 
before  a  fenced  clearing  that  swept  back  to  the 
abrupt  wall  of  the  range,  against  which  a  low  house 
was  scarcely  distinguishable  from  the  sere,  rocky 
ascent.  Finally  he  drove  in,  over  a  faintly  marked 
track,  past  a  corner  of  the  fence  railed  about  a  trough 
for  sheep  shearing,  to  the  house.  A  pine  tree  stood 

[300] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

at  either  side  of  the  large,  uncut  stone  at  the  thresh 
old  ;  except  for  a  massive  exterior  chimney  the  som 
berly  painted  frame  structure  was  without  noticeable 
feature. 

He  discovered  immediately  from  the  youthful 
feminine  figure  awaiting  him  at  the  door  that  he 
was  not  at  fault.  Mrs.  Crandall's  face  radiated  her 
pleasure. 

"Mr.  Makimmon!"  she  cried;  "there's  just  no 
one  we'd  rather  see  than  you.  Step  right  out,  and 
Alexander'll  take  your  horse.  He's  only  at  the  back 
of  the  house.  .  .  .  Alec!"  she  called;  "Alec,  what 
do  you  suppose? — here's  Mr.  Makimmon." 

Alexander  Crandall  quickly  appeared,  in  a  hide 
apron  covered  with  curlings  of  wood.  A  slight  con 
cern  was  visible  upon  his  countenance,  as  though  he 
expected  at  any  moment  to  see  revealed  the  "string" 
of  which  his  brother  had  spoken. 

Gordon  adequately  met  his  salutation,  and  turned 
to  the  woman.  He  saw  now  that  she  was  more 
mature  than  Lettice :  the  mouth  before  him,  although 
young  and  red,  was  bitten  in  at  the  corners ;  already 
the  eyes  gazed  through  a  shadow  of  care;  the  capa 
ble  hands  were  rough  and  discolored  from  toil  and 
astringent  soaps. 

"Come  in,  come  in,"  Crandall  urged,  striving  to 
banish  the  sudden  anxiety  from  his  voice. 

"And  you  go  right  around,  Alec,"  his  wife  added, 
[3011 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"and  twist  the  head  off  that  dominicker  chicken. 
Pick  some  flat  beans  too,  there's  a  mess  still  hanging 
on  the  poles.  Go  in,  Mr.  Makimmon." 

He  was  ushered  into  the  ceremonious,  barely- 
furnished,  best  room.  There  was  a  small  rag  car 
pet  at  the  door,  with  an  archaic,  woven  animal,  and 
at  its  feet  an  unsteady  legend,  "Mary's  Little 
Lamb";  but  the  floor  was  uncovered,  and  the  walls, 
sealed  in  resinous  pine,  the  pine  ceiling,  give  the 
effect,  singular  and  depressing,  of  standing  inside  a 
huge  box. 

"It's  mortal  cold  here,"  Mrs.  Crandall  truthfully 
observed;  "the  grate's  broken.  If  you  wouldn't 
mind  going  out  into  the  kitchen — " 

In  the  kitchen,  from  a  comfortable  place  by  the 
fire,  Gordon  watched  her  deft  preparations  for  an 
early  supper.  Crandall  appeared  with  the  picked 
dominicker,  and  sat  rigidly  before  his  guest. 

"I  don't  quite  make  out,"  he  at  last  essayed, 
"how  you  expect  your  money,  what  you  want  out  of 
it." 

"I  don't  want  anything  out  of  it,"  Gordon  re 
plied  with  an  almost  bitter  vigor;  "leastways  not 
any  premium.  I  said  you  could  pay  me  when  you 
liked.  I'll  deed  you  the  farm,  and  we'll  draw  up 
a  paper  to  suit — to  suit  crops." 

The  apprehension  in  Alexander  Crandall's  face 
turned  to  perplexed  relief.  "I  don't  understand," 

[302] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

he  admitted;  "but  I  haven't  got  to.  It's  enough  to 
know  that  you  pulled  us  out  of  ruination.  Things 
will  cpme  right  along  now;  we  can  see  light;  I'm 
extending  the  sheep-cots  twice." 

Supper  at  an  end  he  too  launched  upon  the  lack  of 
opportunity  in  Greenstream.  "Some  day,"  he  as 
serted,  "and  not  so  far  off  either,  we'll  shake  off  the 
grip  of  these  blood-money  men;  we'll  have  a  state 
la  wed  bank ;  a  rate  of  interest  a  man  can  carry  with 
out  breaking  his  back.  There's  no  better  land  than 
the  Bottom,  or  the  higher  clearings  for  grazing  .  .  . 
it's  the  men,  some  of  'em.  .  .  ." 


[303] 


VIII 

IT  was  dark  when  Gordon  closed  the  stable  door 
and  turned  to  his  dwelling.  A  light  streamed 
from  a  chink  in  the  closed  kitchen  shutter  like  a 
gold  arrow  shot  into  the  night.  From  within  came 
the  long-drawn  quaver  of  William  Vibard's  per 
formance  of  the  Arkansas  Traveller.  He  was  sit 
ting  bowed  over  the  accordion,  his  jaw  dropped,  his 
eyes  glazed  with  the  intoxication  of  his  obsession. 
Rose  was  rigidly  upright  in  a  straight  chair,  her 
hands  crossed  at  the  wrists  in  her  meager  lap. 

The  fluctuating,  lamentable  sounds  of  the  instru 
ment,  Rose's  expression  of  conscious  virtue,  were 
suddenly  petty,  exasperating;  and  Gordon,  after  a 
short  acknowledgment  of  their  greeting,  proceeded 
through  the  house  to  the  sitting  room  beyond. 

No  fire  had  been  laid  in  the  small,  air-tight  stove; 
the  room  had  a  closed,  musty  smell,  and  was  more 
chill  than  the  night  without;  his  breath  hung  before 
him  in  a  white  vapor.  Soon  he  had  wood  burning 
explosively,  the  stove  grew  rapidly  red  hot  and  the 
chill  vanished.  He  saw  beyond  the  lamp  with  its 
shade  of  minute,  variously-colored  silks  the  effigy  of 

[304] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

Mrs.  Hollidew  dead.  Undisturbed  in  the  film  of 
dust  that  overlaid  the  table  stood  a  pink  celluloid 
thimble  .  .  .  Lettice  had  placed  it  there.  .  .  . 

His  thoughts  turned  to  Alexander  Crandall  and 
his  wife,  to  the  extended  sheep-cots,  and  the 
"light"  which  they  now  saw.  He  recalled  the  form 
er's  assertion  that  the  land  was  all  right,  but  that 
the  blood-money  men  made  life  arduous  in  Green- 
stream.  He  remembered  Edgar  Crandall's  arraign 
ment  of  the  County  as  "the  littlest,  meanest  place 
on  earth,"  a  place  where  a  man  who  wanted  his  own, 
his  chance,  was  helpless  to  survive  the  avarice  of  a 
few  individuals,  the  avarice  for  gold.  He  had 
asked  him,  Gordon  Makimmon,  to  give  him  that 
chance.  But,  obviously,  it  was  impossible  .  .  .  ab 
surd. 

His  memory  drifted  back  to  the  evening  in  the 
store  when  Valentine  Simmons  had  abruptly  de 
manded  payment  of  his  neglected  account,  to  the 
hopeless  rage  that  had  possessed  him  at  the  realiza 
tion  of  his  impotence,  of  Clare's  illness.  That 
scene,  that  bitter  realization  of  ruin,  had  been  re 
peated  across  the  breadth  of  Greenstream.  As  a 
boy  he  had  heard  men  in  shaking  tones  curse  Pom- 
pey  Hollidew;  only  last  week  the  red-headed  Cran 
dall  had  sworn  he  would  let  his  ground  rot  rather 
than  slave  for  the  breed  of  Cannon.  It  was,  ap 
parently,  a  perpetual  evil,  an  endless  burden  for  the 

[305] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

shoulders  of  men  momentarily  forgetful  or  caught  in 
a  trap  of  circumstance. 

Yet  he  had,  without  effort,  without  deprivation, 
freed  Alexander  Crandall.  He  could  have  freed 
his  brother,  given  him  the  chance  his  rebellious  soul 
demanded,  with  equal  ease.  He  had  not  done  that 
last,  he  had  said  at  the  time,  because  of  the  numbers 
that  would  immediately  besiege  him  for  assistance. 
This,  he  realized,  was  not  a  valid  objection — the 
money  was  his  to  dispose  of  as  he  saw  fit.  He  pos 
sessed  large  sums  lying  at  the  Stenton  banks,  auto 
matically  returning  him  interest,  profit;  thrown  in 
the  scale  their  weight  would  go  far  toward  balanc 
ing  the  greed  of  Valentine  Simmons,  of  Cannon. 

He  considered  these  facts  totally  ignorant  of  the 
fact  that  they  were  but  the  reflection  of  his  own  in 
choate  need  born  in  the  anguish  of  his  wife's  death; 
he  was  not  conscious  of  the  veering  of  his  sensi 
bility — sharpened  by  the  hoarse  cry  from  the  stiffen 
ing  lips  of  Lettice — to  the  world  without.  He 
thought  of  the  possibility  before  him  neither  as  a 
scheme  of  philanthropy  nor  of  revenge,  nor  of  re 
habilitation.  He  considered  it  solely  in  the  light 
of  his  own  experience,  as  a  practical  measure  to  give 
men  their  chance,  their  own,  in  Greenstream.  The 
cost  to  himself  would  be  small — his  money  had 
faded  from  his  conceptions,  his  necessities,  as  abso 
lutely  as  though  it  had  been  fairy  gold  dissolved  by 

[306] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

the  touch  of  a  magic  wand.  He  had  never  realized 
its  potentiality;  lately  he  had  ignored  it  with  the 
contempt  of  supreme  indifference.  Now  an  actual 
employment  for  it  occupied  his  mind. 

The  stove  glowed  with  calorific  energy;  General 
Jackson,  who  had  been  lying  at  his  feet,  moved  far 
ther  away.  The  lamplight  grew  faint  and  reddish, 
and  then  expired,  trailing  a  thin,  penetrating  odor. 
In  the  dark  the  heated  cylinder  of  the  stove  shone 
rosy,  mysterious. 

Gordon  Makimmon  was  unaware  of  his  own 
need;  yet,  at  the  anticipation  of  the  vigorous  course 
certain  to  follow  a  decision  to  use  his  money  in  op 
position  to  the  old,  established,  rapacious  greed,  he 
was  conscious  of  a  sudden  tightening  of  his  mental 
and  physical  fibers.  The  belligerent  blood  carried 
by  George  Gordon  MacKimmon  from  world-old 
wars,  from  the  endless  strife  of  bitter  and  rugged 
men  in  high,  austere  places,  stirred  once  more 
through  his  relaxed  and  rusting  being. 

He  thought,  aglow  like  the  stove,  of  the  struggle 
that  would  follow  such  a  determination,  a  struggle 
with  the  pink  fox,  Valentine  Simmons.  He  thought 
of  himself  as  an  equal  with  the  other;  for,  if  Sim 
mons  were  practised  in  cunning,  if  Simmons  were 
deep,  he,  Gordon  Makimmon,  would  have  no  neces 
sity  for  circuitous  dealing;  his  course  would  be 
simple,  unmistakable. — He  would  lend  money  at, 

[307] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

say,  three  per  cent,  grant  extensions  of  time  wherever 
necessary,  and  knock  the  bottom  out  of  the  store 
keepers'  usurious  monopoly,  drag  the  farms  out  of 
Cannon's  grasping  fingers. 

"By  God!"  he  exclaimed,  erect  in  the  dark;  "but 
Edgar  Crandall  will  get  his  apples." 

The  dog  licked  his  hand,  faithful,  uncomprehend 
ing. 


[308] 


IX 

ON  an  afternoon  of  mid-August  Gordon  was 
sitting  in  the  chamber  of  his  dwelling  that 
had  been  formerly  used  as  dining  room. 
The  table  was  bare  of  the  castor  and  the  red  cloth, 
and  held  an  inkpot,  pens  upright  in  a  glass  of  shot, 
and  torn  envelopes  on  an  old  blotter.  An  iron  safe 
stood  against  the  wall  at  Gordon's  back,  and  above  it 
hung  a  large  calendar,  advertising  the  Stenton 
Realty  and  Trust  Company. 

A  sudden  gloom  swept  over  the  room,  and  Gor 
don  rose,  proceeded  to  the  door.  A  bank  of  purple 
cloud  swept  above  the  west  range,  opened  in  the  sky 
like  a  gigantic,  menacing  fist;  the  greenery  of  the 
valley  was  overcast,  and  a  white  flash  of  lightning, 
accompanied  by  a  shattering  peal  of  thunder, 
stabbed  viciously  at  the  earth.  There  was  no  rain. 
An  edge  of  serene  light  followed  in  the  west  a  band 
of  saffron  radiance  that  widened  until  the  cloud  had 
vanished  beyond  the  eastern  peaks.  The  sultry  heat 
lay  like  a  blanket  over  Greenstream. 

He  turned  back  into  the  room,  but,  as  he  moved, 
he  was  aware  of  a  figure  at  the  porch  door.  It  was 

[309] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

a  man  with  a  round,  freshly-colored  countenance, 
bland  eyes,  and  a  limp  mustache,  clad  in  leather 
boots  and  a  worn  corduroy  gunning  coat.  Gordon 
nodded  familiarly;  it  was  the  younger  Entriken  from 
the  valley  beyond. 

"I  came  to  see  you  about  my  note,"  he  announced 
in  a  facile  candor;  "I  sh'd  take  it  up  this  month,  but 
times  are  terrible  bad,  Gordon,  and  I  wondered  if 
you'd  give  me  another  extension?  There's  no  real 
reason  why  you  sh'd  wait  again;  I  reckon  I  could 
make  her,  but  it  would  certainly  be  accommodat 
ing — "  he  paused  interrogatively. 

"Well,"  Gordon  hesitated,  "I'm  not  in  a  hurry 
for  the  note,  if  it  comes  to  that.  But  the  fact  is 
.  .  .  I've  got  a  lot  of  money  laid  out.  What's  been 
the  matter? — the  weather  has  been  good,  it's  rained 
regular — " 

"That's  just  it,"  Entriken  interrupted;  "it's 
rained  too  blamed  regular.  It  is  all  right  for  crops, 
but  we've  got  nothing  besides  cattle,  and  steers 
wouldn't  hardly  put  on  anything  the  past  weeks. 
Of  course,  in  a  way,  grass  is  cattle,  but  it  just  seems 
they  wouldn't  take  any  good  in  the  wet." 

"I  suppose  it  will  be  all  right,"  Gordon  Makim- 
mon  assented;  "but  I  can  hardly  have  the  money 
out  so  long  .  .  .  others  too." 


[310] 


THE  heat  thickened  with  the  dusk.  The  wail 
ing  clamor  of  William  Vibard's  accordion 
rose  from  the  porch.  He  had,  of  late, 
avoided  sitting  with  Rose  and  her  husband;  they 
irritated  him  in  countless,  insignificant  ways. 
Rose's  superiority  had  risen  above  the  commonplace 
details  of  the  house;  she  sat  on  the  porch  and  re 
garded  Gordon  with  a  strained,  rigid  smile.  After 
a  pretense  at  procuring  work  William  Vibard  had 
relapsed  into  an  endless  debauch  of  sound.  His 
manner  became  increasingly  abstracted;  he  ate,  he 
lived,  with  the  gestures  of  a  man  playing  an  accor 
dion. 

The  lines  on  Gordon's  thin,  dark  face  had  multi 
plied;  his  eyes,  in  the  shadow  of  his  bony  forehead, 
burned  steady,  pale  blue;  his  chin  was  resolute;  but 
a  new  doubt,  a  constant,  faint  perplexity,  blurred 
the  line  of  his  mouth. 

From  the  road  above  came  the  familiar  sound  of 
hoofbeats,  muffled  in  dust,  but  it  stopped  opposite 
his  dwelling;  and,  soon  after,  the  porch  creaked 
under  slow,  heavy  feet,  and  a  thick,  black-clad  figure 
knocked  and  entered. 

[311] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

It  was  the  priest,  Merlier. 

In  the  past  months  Gordon  had  been  conscious  of 
an  increasing  concord  with  the  silent  clerical.  He 
vaguely  felt  in  the  other's  isolation  the  wreckage 
of  an  old  catastrophe,  a  loneliness  not  unlike  his, 
Gordon  Makimmon's,  who  had  killed  his  wife  and 
their  child. 

"The  Nickles,"  the  priest  pronounced,  sudden 
and  harsh,  "are  worthless,  woman  and  man.  They 
would  be  bad  if  they  were  better;  as  it  is  they  are 
only  a  drunken  charge  on  charity  and  the  church. 
They  have  been  stewed  in  whiskey  now  for  a  month. 
They  make  nothing  amongst  their  weeds.— Is  it 
possible  they  got  a  sum  from  you?" 

"Six  weeks  back,"  Gordon  replied  briefly;  "two 
hundred  dollars  to  put  a  floor  on  the  bare  earth  and 
stop  a  leaking  roof." 

"Lies,"  Merlier  commented.  "When  any  one 
in  my  church  is  deserving  I  will  tell  you  myself.  I 
think  of  an  old  woman  now,  but  ten  dollars  would 
be  a  fortune."  Silence  fell  upon  them.  Then: 

"Charity  is  commanded,"  he  proceeded,  "but  out 
of  the  hands  of  authority  it  is  a  difficult  and  treach 
erous  virtue.  The  people  are  without  comprehen 
sion,"  he  made  a  gesture  of  contempt. 

"With  age,"  the  deliberate  voice  went  on,  "the 
soul  grows  restless  and  moves  in  strange  directions, 
struggling  to  throw  off  the  burden  of  flesh.  But  I 

[312] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

that  know  tell  you,"  Merlier  paused  at  the  door,  "the 
charity  of  material  benevolence,  of  gold,  will  cure 
no  spiritual  sores ;  for  spirit  is  eternal,  but  the  flesh 
is  only  so  much  dung."  He  stopped  abruptly, 
coughed,  as  though  he  had  carried  his  utterance  be 
yond  propriety.  "The  Nickles,"  he  repeated  som 
berly,  "are  worthless;  they  make  trouble  in  my 
parish;  with  money  they  make  more." 


[313] 


XI 

THE  year,  in  the  immemorial,  minute  shifting 
of  season,  grew  brittle  and  cold;  the  dusk 
fell   sooner   and   night   lingered  late   into 
morning. 

William  Vibard  moved  with  his  accordion  from 
the  porch  to  beside  the  kitchen  stove.  He  was  in 
the  throes  of  a  new  piece,  McGinty,  and  Gordon 
Makimmon  was  correspondingly  surprised  when,  as 
he  was  intent  upon  some  papers,  Rose's  husband 
voluntarily  relinquished  his  instrument,  and  sat  in 
the  room  with  him. 

"What's  the  matter,"  Gordon  indifferently  in 
quired;  "is  she  busted?" 

William  Vibard  indignantly  repudiated  that  pos 
sibility.  A  wave  of  purpose  rose  to  the  long,  corru 
gated  countenance,  but  sank,  without  finding  expres 
sion  in  speech.  Finally  Gordon  heard  Rose  calling 
her  husband.  That  young  man  twitched  in  his 
chair,  but  he  made  no  other  move,  no  answer.  Her 
voice  rose  again,  sharp  and  urgent,  and  Gordon  ob 
served  : 

"Your  wife's  a-calling." 

[314] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"I  heard  her,  but  I'd  ruther  sit  right  where  I  am." 

She  appeared  in  the  doorway,  flushed  and  angry. 

"William,"  she  commanded,  "you  come  straight 
out  here  to  the  kitchen.  I  got  a  question  for  you." 

"I'll  stay  just  where  I  am  for  a  spell,"  he  replied, 
avoiding  her  gaze. 

"You  do  as  I  tell  you  right  off." 

A  stubborn  expression  settled  over  his  face  and 
shoulders.  He  made  her  no  further  reply.  Rose's 
anger  gathered  in  a  tempest  that  she  tried  in  vain  to 
restrain. 

"William,"  she  demanded,  "where  is  it?  It's 
gone,  you  know  what." 

"I  ain't  seen  it,"  he  answered  finally;  "I  really 
ain't,  Rose." 

"That's  a  story,  only  you  knew.  Come  out 
here." 

"Get  along,"  Gordon  interrupted  testily.  "How 
can  I  figure  in  this  ruction?" 

"I  ain't  agoing  a  step,"  William  told  them  both; 
"I'm  going  to  stop  right  here  with  Uncle  Gordon." 

"Well,  then,"  the  latter  insisted,  "get  it  through 
with — what  is  it?" 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,"  William  Vibard  stam 
mered;  "it's  a  hundred  and  forty  dollars  Rose  held 
out  on  you  and  kept  in  a  drawer,  that's  what!" 

Rose's  emotion  changed  to  a  crimson  consterna 
tion. 

[315] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"Why,  William  Vibard !  what  an  awful  thing  to 
say.  What  little  money  I  had  put  by  was  saved 
from  years.  What  a  thing  to  say  about  me  and 
Uncle  Gordon." 

"  'Tain't  no  such  thing  you  saved  it;  you  held  it 
out  on  him,  dollars  at  a  time.  You  didn't  have  no 
more  right  to  it  than  I  did." 

Gordon's  gaze  centered  keenly  upon  his  niece's  hot 
face.  She  endeavored  to  sustain,  refute,  the  accusa 
tion  successfully;  but  her  valor  wavered,  broke. 
She  disappeared  abruptly.  He  surveyed  Vibard 
without  pleasure. 

"You're  a  ramshackle  contraption,"  he  observed 
crisply. 

"I  got  as  good  a  right  to  it  as  her,"  the  other 
repeated. 

"A  hundred  and  forty  dollars,"  Gordon  said  bit 
terly;  "that's  a  small  business.  WTell,  where  is  it? 
Have  you  got  it?" 

"No,  I  ain't,"  William  exploded. 

"Well—?" 

"You  can't  never  tell  what  might  happen,"  the 
young  man  observed  enigmatically;  "the  bellowses 
wear  out  dreadful  quick,  the  keys  work  loose  like, 
and  then  they  might  stop  making  them.  It's  the  best 
one  on  the  market." 

"What  scrabble's  this?  What  did  you  do  with 
the  money?" 

[316] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"They're  in  the  stable,"  William  Vibard  an 
swered  more  obscurely  than  before.  "With  good 
treatment  they  ought  to  last  a  life.  They  come 
cheaper  too  like  that." 

Gordon  relinquished  all  hope  of  extracting  any 
meaning  from  the  other's  elliptical  speech.  He  rose. 
"If  'they're'  in  the  stable,"  he  announced,  "I'll  soon 
have  some  sense  out  of  you."  He  procured  a  lan 
tern,  and  tramped  shortly  to  the  stable,  closely  fol 
lowed  by  Rose's  husband. 

"Now!"  he  exclaimed,  loosening  the  hasp  of  the 
door,  throwing  it  open. 

The  former  entered  and  bent  over  a  heap  in  an 
obscure  corner.  When  he  rose  the  lantern  shone  on 
two  orderly  piles  of  glossy  black  paper  boxes.  Gor 
don  strode  across  the  contracted  space  and  wrenched 
off  a  lid.  .  .  .  Within  reposed  a  brand  new  ac 
cordion.  There  were  nine  others. 

"You  see,"  William  eagerly  interposed;  "now  I'm 
fixed  good." 

At  the  sight  of  the  grotesque  waste  a  swift  resent 
ment  moved  Gordon  Makimmon — it  was  a  mock 
ery  of  his  money's  use,  a  gibing  at  his  capability,  his 
planning.  The  petty  treachery  of  Rose  added  its 
injury.  He  pitched  the  box  in  his  hands  upon  the 
clay  floor,  and  the  accordion  fell  out,  quivering  like 
a  live  thing. 

"Hey!"  William  Vibard  remonstrated;  "don't  do 
[317] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

like  that  .  .  .  delicate — "  He  knelt,  with  an  ex 
pression  of  concern,  and,  tenderly  fingering  the  in 
strument,  replaced  it  in  the  box. 

Gordon  turned  sharply  and  returned  to  the  house. 
Rose  was  in  her  room.  He  could  hear  her  moving 
rapidly  about,  pulling  at  the  bureau  drawers.  De 
pression  settled  upon  him;  he  carried  the  lantern 
into  the  bedroom,  where  he  sat  bowed,  troubled.  He 
was  aroused  finally  by  the  faint  strains  of  William's 
latest  melodic  effort  drifting  discreetly  from  the 
stable. 

The  next  morning  the  Vibards  departed.  Rose 
was  silent,  her  face,  red  and  swollen,  was  vindictive. 
On  the  back  of  the  vehicle  that  conveyed  them  to  the 
parental  Berrys  was  securely  tied  the  square  bundle 
that  had  "fixed  good"  William  Vibard  musically  for 
life. 


[318] 


XII 

GORDON  MAKIMMON,  absorbed  in  the 
difficult  and  elusive  calculations  of  his  in 
definable    project    was    unaware    of    the 
change  wrought  by  their  departure,  of  the  shifting  of 
the  year,  the  familiar  acts  and  living  about  him. 
He  looked  up  abruptly  from  the  road  when  Valen 
tine  Simmons,  upon  the  platform  of  the  store,  ar 
rested  his  progress  homeward. 

Simmons'  voice  was  high  and  shrill,  as  though 
time  had  tightened  and  dried  his  vocal  cords;  his 
cheeks  were  still  round  and  pink,  but  they  were  sap 
less,  the  color  lingered  like  a  film  of  desiccated 
paint. 

The  store  remained  unchanged:  Sampson,  the 
clerk,  had  gone,  but  another,  identical  in  shirt 
sleeves  upheld  by  bowed  elastics,  was  brushing  the 
counters  with  a  turkey  wing ;  the  merchandise  on  the 
shelves,  unloaded  from  the  slow  procession  of  capa 
cious  mountain  wagons,  flowed  in  endless,  unvaried 
stream  to  the  scattered,  upland  homes. 

Valentine  Simmons  took  his  familiar  place  in  the 
glass  enclosure,  revolving  his  chair  to  fix  on  Gordon 
a  birdlike  attention. 

[3191 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"As  an  old  friend,"  he  declared,  "an  old  Pres 
byterian  friend,  I  want  to  lay  some  of  my  experience 
before  you.  I  want  to  complain  a  little,  Gordon; 
I  have  the  right  .  .  .  my  years,  Pompey's  associate. 
The  fact  is — you're  hurting  the  County,  you're  hurt 
ing  the  people  and  me;  you're  hurting  yourself. 
Everybody  is  suffering  from  your — your  mistaken 
generosity.  We  have  all  become  out  of  sorts,  un 
balanced,  from  the  exceptional  condition  you  have 
brought  about.  It  won't  do,  Gordon;  credit  has 
been  upset,  we  don't  know  where  we  stand,  or  who's 
who ;  it's  bad. 

"I  said  you  suffered  with  the  rest  of  us,  but  you 
are  worse  off  still.  How  shall  I  put  it? — the 
County  is  taking  sad  advantage  of  your,  er — lib 
erality.  There's  young  Entriken;  he  was  in  the 
store  a  little  time  ago  and  told  me  that  you  had 
extended  his  note  again.  He  thought  it  was  smart 
to  hold  out  the  money  on  you.  There's  not  a  like 
lier  farm,  nor  better  conditioned  cattle,  than  his  in 
Greenstream.  He  could  pay  twenty  notes  like  yours 
in  a  day's  time.  I  hate  to  see  money  cheapened  like 
that,  it  ain't  healthy. 

"What  is  it  you're  after,  Gordon?  Is  it  at  the 
incorruptible,  the  heavenly,  treasure  you're  aiming? 
But  if  it  is  I'll  venture  this — that  the  Lord  doesn't 
love  a  fool.  And  the  man  with  the  talents,  don't 
overlook  him." 

[320] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"I'm  not  aiming  at  anything,"  Gordon  answered, 
"I'm  just  doing." 

"And  there's  that  Hagan  that  got  five  thousand 
from  you,  it's  an  open  fact  about  him.  He  came 
from  the  other  end  of  the  state,  clear  from  Norfolk, 
to  get  a  slice.  He  gave  you  the  address,  the  em 
ployment,  of  a  kin  in  Greenstream  and  left  for  parts 
unknown.  No,  no,  the  Lord  doesn't  love  a  fool." 

"I  may  be  a  fool  as  you  see  me,"  Gordon  con 
tended  stubbornly;  "and  the  few  liars  that  get  my 
money  may  laugh.  But  there's  this,  there's  this, 
Simmons — I'm  not  cursed  by  the  dispossessed  and 
the  ailing  and  the  plumb  penniless.  I  don't  go  to  a 
man  with  his  crop  a  failure  on  the  field  like,  well 
— we'll  say,  Cannon  does,  with  a  note  in  my  hand 
for  his  breath.  I've  put  a  good  few  out  of — of 
Cannon's  reach.  Did  you  forget  that  I  know  how 
it  feels  to  hear  Ed  Hincle,  on  the  Courthouse  steps, 
call  out  my  place  for  debt?  Did  you  forget  that 
I  sat  in  this  office  while  you  talked  of  old  Presby 
terian  friends  and  sold  me  into  the  street?" 

"Incorrigible,"  Valentine  Simmons  said,  "incor 
rigible;  no  sense  of  responsibility.  ^1  had  hoped 
Pompey's  estate  would  bring  some  out  in  you.  But 
I  should  have  known — it's  the  Makimmon  blood; 
you  are  the  son  of  your  father.  I  knew  your  grand 
father  too,  a  man  that  fairly  insulted  opportunity." 

"We've  never  been  storekeepers." 
[321] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"Never  kept  much  of  anything,  have  you,  any  of 
you?  You  can  call  it  what  you've  a  mind  to,  lib 
erality  or  shiftlessness.  But  there's  nothing  saved 
by  names.  There:  it  seems  as  if  you  never  got  civ 
ilized,  always  contemptuous  and  violent-handed 
.  .  .  it's  the  blood.  I've  studied  considerable  about 
you  lately;  something'll  have  to  be  done  for  the  good 
of  all." 

"What  is  it  you  want  of  me?" 

"Call  in  your  bad  debts,"  the  other  promptly  re 
sponded;  "shake  off  the  worthless  lot  hanging  to 
your  pocket.  Put  the  money  rate  back  where  it  be 
longs.  Why,  in  days  gone  by,"  Valentine  Simmons 
chuckled,  "seventy  per  cent  wasn't  out  of  the  way 
for  a  forced  loan,  forty  was  just  so-so.  Ah,  Pompey 
and  me  made  some  close  deals.  Pompey  multiplied 
his  talents.  The  County  was  an  open  ledger  to 
him." 

"Didn't  you  ever  think  of  the  men  who  had  to 
pay  you  seventy  per  cent?"  Gordon  asked,  genu 
inely  curious. 

"Certainly,"  Simmons  retorted;  "we  educated 
them,  taught  'em  thrift.  While  you  are  promoting 
idleness  and  loose-living.  .  .  .  But  this  is  only  an 
opening  for  what  I  wanted  to  say. — I  had  a  letter 
last  week  from  the  Tennessee  and  Northern  people, 
the  Buffalo  plan  has  matured,  they're  pushing  the 
construction  right  along." 

[322] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"I  intended  to  come  to  you  about  that." 

"Well?" 

"I  ain't  going  on  with  our  agreement." 

Simmons'  face  exhibited  not  a  trace  of  concern. 

"I  may  say,"  he  returned  smoothly,  "that  I  am 
not  completely  surprised.  I  have  been  looking  for 
something  of  the  kind.  I  must  remind  you  that  our 
partnership  is  a  legal  and  binding  instrument;  you 
can't  break  it,  nor  throw  aside  your  responsibility, 
with  a  few  words.  It  will  be  an  expensive  business 
for  you." 

"I'm  willing  to  pay  with  what  I've  got." 

The  other  held  up  a  palm  in  his  familiar,  arrest 
ing  gesture.  "Nothing  of  that  magnitude;  noth 
ing  out  of  the  way;  I  only  wanted  to  remind  you 
that  a  compensation  should  follow  your  decision. 
It  puts  me  in  a  very  nice  position  indeed.  I  gather 
from  your  refusal  to  continue  the  partnership  that 
you  do  not  intend  to  execute  singly  the  original  plan ; 
it  is  possible  that  you  will  not  hold  the  options 
against  the  coming  of  transportation." 

"You've  got  her,"  Gordon  declared;  "I'm  not 
going  to  profit  seventy  times  over,  tie  up  all  that 
timber,  from  the  ignorance  of  men  that  ought  to 
rightly  advantage  from  it.  I — I — "  Gordon  rose 
to  his  feet  in  the  harassing  obscurity  of  his  need; 
"I  don't  want  to  make!  I  don't  want  to  take  any 
thing  .  .  .  never  again!  I  want — " 

[323] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

"You  forget,  unfortunately,  that  I  am  forced  to 
be  accessory  to  your — your  change  of  heart.  I 
may  say  that  I  shall  have  to  pay  dearly  for  your — 
your  eleventh  hour  conversion.  Timber  will  be — 
unsteady." 

"Didn't  you  mention  getting  something  out  of  it?" 

"A  mere  detail  to  my  effort,  my  time.  What  my 
timber  will  be  worth,  with  what  you  throw  on  the 
market  hawking  up  and  down  .  .  .  problematic." 

Gordon  Makimmon  hesitated,  a  plan  forming 
vaguely,  painfully,  in  his  mind.  Finally,  "I  might 
buy  you  out,"  he  suggested;  "if  you  didn't  ask  too 
dam'  much.  Then  I  could  do  as  I  pleased  with  the 
whole  lot." 

"Now  that,"  Valentine  Simmons  admitted,  dryly 
cordial,  "is  a  plan  worth  consideration.  We  might 
agree  on  a  price,  a  low  price  to  an  old  partner.  You 
met  the  Company's  agents,  heard  the  agreement  out 
lined;  a  solid  proposal.  And,  as  you  say,  with  the 
timber  control  in  your  own  hands,  you  could  arrange 
as  you  pleased  with  the  people  concerned." 

He  grew  silent,  enveloped  in  thought.     Then : 

"I'll  take  a  hundred  thousand  for  all  the  options 
I  bought,  for  my  interest  in  the  partnership." 

"I  don't  know  as  I  could  manage  that,"  Gordon 
admitted. 

An  unassumed  astonishment  marked  the  other's 
countenance.  "Why ! "  he  ejaculated,  "Pompey  left 

[324] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

an  estate  estimated  at — "  he  stopped  from  sheer 
surprise. 

"Some  of  the  investments  went  bad/'  Gordon  con 
tinued;  "down  in  Stenton  they  said  I  didn't  move 
'em  fast  enough.  Then  the  old  man  had  a  lot  laid 
out  in  ways  I  don't  hold  with,  with  people  I  wouldn't 
collect  from.  And  it's  a  fact  a  big  amount's  got  out 
here  lately.  Of  course  it  will  come  back,  the  most 
part." 

Simmons'  expression  grew  skeptical. 

"I  know  you  too,"  Gordon  added;  "you'll  want 
the  price  in  your  hand." 

"I'm  getting  on,"  the  storekeeper  admitted;  "I 
can't  wait  now." 

"I  don't  know  if  I  can  make  it,"  Gordon  re 
peated;  "it'll  strip  me  if  I  do." 

Valentine  Simmons  swung  back  to  his  desk.  "At 
least,"  he  observed,  "keep  this  quiet  till  something's 
settled." 

Gordon  agreed. 


13251 


XIII 

EVEN  if  he  proved  able  to  buy  out  Simmons, 
he  thought  walking  home,  it  would  be  a 
delicate  operation  to  return  the  timber 
rights  to  where  he  thought  they  belonged.  He 
considered  the  possibility  of  making  a  gift  of  the 
options  to  the  men  from  whom  they  had  been  wrong 
fully  obtained.  But  something  of  Simmons'  shrewd 
knowledge  of  the  world,  something  of  the  priest's 
contemptuous  arraignment  of  material  values,  lin 
gering  in  Gordon's  mind,  convinced  him  of  the  po 
tential  folly  of  that  course.  It  would  be  more  prac 
tical  to  sell  back  the  options  to  those  from  which 
they  had  been  purchased  at  the  nominal  prices  paid. 
He  had  only  a  vague  idea  of  his  balances  at  the 
Stenton  banks,  the  possibilities  of  the  investments 
from  which  he  received  profit.  He  was  certain, 
however,  that  the  sum  asked  by  Valentine  Simmons 
would  obliterate  his  present  resources.  Yet  he  was 
forced  to  admit  that  it  did  not  seem  exorbitant. 

He  continued  his  altruistic  deliberations  through 
out  the  evening  at  his  dwelling.  It  might  be  well, 
before  investing  such  a  paramount  sum,  to  com- 

[326] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

municate  with  the  Tennessee  and  Northern  Com 
pany,  receive  a  fresh  ratification  of  their  intention. 
Yet  he  could  not  do  that  without  incurring  the  dan 
ger  of  premature  questioning,  investigation.  It  was 
patent  that  he  would  have  to  be  prepared  to  make  an 
immediate  distribution  of  the  options  when  his  in 
tention  became  known  in  Greenstream.  He  was 
aware  that  when  the  coming  of  a  railroad  to  the 
County  became  common  knowledge  the  excitement  of 
the  valley  would  grow  intense. 

Again,  it  might  be  better  first  to  organize  the  tim 
ber  of  Greenstream,  so  that  a  harmonious  local  con 
dition  would  facilitate  all  negotiations,  and  avert  the 
danger,  which  Valentine  Simmons  had  pointed  out, 
of  individual  blindness  and  competition.  But,  in 
order  to  accomplish  that,  he  would  have  to  bring  into 
concord  fifty  or  more  wary,  suspicious,  and  largely 
ignorant  adults.  He  would  have  to  deal  with  swift 
and  secret  avarice,  with  vain  golden  dreams  born  of 
years  of  bitter  poverty,  privation,  ceaseless  and  in 
credible  toil.  The  magnitude  of  the  latter  task 
appalled  him;  fact  and  figure  whirled  in  his  con 
fused  mind.  He  was  standing,  and  he  suddenly  felt 
dizzy,  and  sat  down.  The  giddiness  vanished,  but 
left  him  with  twitching  fingers,  a  clouded  vision. 
He  might  get  them  all  together,  explain,  persuade. 
.  .  .  Goddy!  it  was  for  their  good.  They  needn't 
be  cross-grained.  There  it  would  be,  the  offer,  for 

[327] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

them  to  take  or  leave.  But,  if  they  delayed,  watch 
out!  Railroad  people  couldn't  be  fooled  with. 
They  might  get  left;  that  was  all. 

This,  he  felt,  was  more  than  he  could  undertake, 
more  than  any  reasonable  person  would  ask.  If  he 
paid  Valentine  Simmons  all  that  money,  and  then  let 
them  have  back  their  own  again,  without  a  cent  to 
himself,  they  must  be  content.  They  should  be  able 
to  bargain  as  well  as  he — who  was  getting  on  and 
had  difficulty  in  adding  figures  to  the  same  amount 
twice — with  the  Tennessee  and  Northern. 

The  following  morning  he  departed  for  Stenton. 


'[328J 


XIV 

GORDON  paid  Valentine  Simmons  eighty- 
nine  thousand  dollars  for  the  latter's  share 
of  the  timber  options  they  had  held  in  com 
mon.  They  were  seated  in  the  room  in  which  Gor 
don  conducted  his  peculiar  transactions.  He  turned 
and  placed  Simmons'  acknowledgment,  the  various 
papers  of  the  dissolved  partnership,  in  the  safe. 

"That  finishes  all  I  had  in  Stenton,"  he  observed. 

Valentine  Simmons  made  no  immediate  reply. 
He  was  intent,  with  tightly- folded  lips,  on  the  cheque 
in  his  hand.  His  shirt,  as  ever,  was  immaculately 
starched,  the  blue  button  was  childlike,  bland;  but 
it  was  cold  without,  and  hot  in  the  room  where  they 
sat,  and  the  color  on  his  cheeks  resembled  dabs  of 
vermilion  on  buffers  of  old  white  leather;  the  tufts 
of  hair  above  his  ears  had  dwindled  to  mere  cottony 
scraps. 

"Prompt  and  satisfactory,"  he  said  at  last.  "I 
tell  you,  Gordon,  you  can  see  as  far  as  another  into  a 
transaction.  Promises  are  of  no  account  but  value 
received  .  .  ."  he  held  up  the  cheque,  a  strip  of 
pale  orange  paper,  pinched  between  withered  fingers. 

[329] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

Suddenly  he  was  in  a  hurry  to  get  away ;  he  drew 
his  overcoat  of  close-haired,  brown  hide  about  his 
narrow  shoulders,  and  trotted  to  the  door,  to  his 
buggy  awaiting  him  at  the  corner  of  the  porch. 


[330] 


XV 

GORDON  placed  on  the  table  before  him  the 
statements  and  accounts  of  his  newly-aug 
mented  options.  The  papers,  to  his  cleri 
cal  inefficiency,  presented  a  bewildering  mass  of 
inexplicable  details  and  accounts.  He  brought 
them,  with  vast  difficulty,  into  a  rough  order.  In  the 
lists  of  the  acreages  of  timber  controlled  there  were 
appended  none  of  the  names  of  those  from  whom 
his  privilege  of  option  had  been  obtained,  no  note 
of  the  slightly-varying  sums  paid — the  sole,  para 
mount  facts  to  Gordon  now.  For  the  establishment 
of  these  he  was  obliged  to  refer  to  the  original,  in 
dividual  contracts,  to  compare  and  add  and  check  off. 
Old  Pompey  had  conducted  his  transactions 
largely  from  his  buggy,  lending  them  a  speciously 
casual  aspect.  The  options  made  to  him  were  writ 
ten  on  slips  of  paper  hastily  torn  from  a  cheap  note 
book,  engrossed  on  yellowing  sheets  of  foolscap  in 
tremulous  Spencerian.  Their  wording  was  in 
formal,  often  strictly  local.  One  granted  privilege 
of  purchase  of,  "The  piney  trees  on  Pap's  and  mine 
but  not  Kenny's  for  nineteen  years."  Another  bore, 
above  the  date,  "In  this  year  of  Jesus  Christ's  holy 
redemption." 

[331] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

The  sales  made  to  Valentine  Simmons  were,  in 
variably,  formal  in  record,  the  signatures  were  all 
witnessed. 

It  was  a  slow,  fatiguing  process.  A  number  of 
the  original  vendors,  Gordon  knew,  had  died,  their 
families  were  scattered;  others  had  removed  from 
the  County;  logical  substitutes  had  to  be  evolved. 
The  mere  comparison  of  the  various  entries,  the  trac 
ing  of  the  tracts  to  the  amounts  involved,  was 
scarcely  within  Gordon's  ability. 

He  labored  through  the  swiftly-falling  dusk  into 
the  night,  and  took  up  the  task  early  the  following 
morning.  A  large  part  of  the  work  had  to  be  done 
a  second,  third,  time — his  brain,  unaccustomed  to 
concentrated  mental  processes,  soon  grew  weary;  he 
repeated  aloud  a  fact  of  figures  without  the  least 
comprehension  of  the  sounds  formed  by  his  lips,  and 
he  would  say  them  again  and  again,  until  he  had 
forced  into  his  blurring  mind  some  significance, 
some  connection. 

He  would  fall  asleep  over  his  table,  his  scattered 
papers,  in  the  grey  daylight,  or  in  the  radiance  of  a 
large  glass  lamp,  and  stay  immobile  for  hours,  while 
his  dog  lay  at  his  feet,  or,  uneasy,  nosed  his  sharp, 
relaxed  knees. 

No  one  would  seek  him,  enter  his  house,  break  his 
exhausted  slumbers.  Lying  on  an  out-flung  arm  his 
head  with  its  sunken,  closed  eyes,  loose  lips,  seemed 

[332] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

hardly  more  alive  than  the  photographed  clay  of 
Mrs.  Hollidew  in  the  sitting  room.  He  would  wake 
slowly,  confused;  the  dog  would  lick  his  inert  hand, 
and  they  would  go  together  in  search  of  food  to  the 
kitchen. 

On  the  occasions  when  he  was  forced  to  go  to  the 
post-office,  the  store,  he  went  hurriedly,  secretively, 
in  a  coat  as  green,  as  aged,  as  Pompey's  own. 

He  was  anxious  to  finish  his  labor,  to  be  released 
from  its  responsibility,  its  weight.  It  appeared  tre 
mendously  difficult  to  consummate ;  it  had  developed 
far  beyond  his  expectation,  his  original  conception. 
The  thought  pursued  him  that  some  needy  individual 
would  be  overlooked,  his  claim  neglected.  No  one 
must  be  defrauded;  all,  all,  must  have  their  own, 
must  have  their  chance.  He,  Gordon  Makimmon, 
was  seeing  that  they  had,  with  Lettice's  money  .  .  . 
because  .  .  .  because.  .  .  . 

The  leaves  had  been  swept  from  the  trees;  the 
mountains  were  gaunt,  rocky,  against  swift,  low 
clouds.  There  was  no  sunlight  except  for  a  brief, 
sullen  red  fire  in  the  west  at  the  end  of  day.  At 
night  the  winds  blew  bleakly  down  Greenstream  val 
ley.  Shutters  were  locked,  shades  drawn,  in  the  vil 
lage;  night  obliterated  it  absolutely.  No  one 
passed,  after  dark,  on  the  road  above. 

He  seemed  to  be  toiling  alone  at  a  hopeless,  in 
terminable  task  isolated  in  the  midst  of  a  vast,  un- 

[333] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

inhabited  desolation,  in  a  black  chasm  filled  with 
the  sound  of  whirling  leaves  and  threshing  branches. 

The  morning,  breaking  late  and  grey  and  cold, 
appeared  equally  difficult,  barren,  in  vain.  The 
kitchen  stove,  continually  neglected,  went  continu 
ally  out,  the  grate  became  clogged  with  ashes,  the 
chimney  refused  to  draw.  He  relit  it,  on  his  knees, 
the  dog  patiently  at  his  side ;  he  fanned  the  kindling 
into  flames,  poured  on  the  coal,  the  shining  black 
dust  coruscating  in  instant,  gold  tracery.  He 
bedded  the  horse  more  warmly,  fed  him  in  a  species 
of  mechanical,  inattentive  regularity. 

Finally  the  list  of  timber  options  he  possessed  was 
completed  with  the  names  of  their  original  owners 
and  the  amounts  for  which  they  had  been  bought. 
A  deep  sense  of  satisfaction,  of  accomplishment,  took 
the  place  of  his  late  anxiety.  Even  the  weather 
changed,  became  complacent — the  valley  was  filled 
with  the  blue  mirage  of  Indian  summer,  the  apparent 
return  of  a  warm,  beneficent  season.  The  decline  of 
the  year  seemed  to  halt,  relent,  in  still,  sunny  hours. 
It  was  as  though  nature,  death,  decay,  had  been  ar 
rested,  set  at  naught;  that  man  might  dwell  forever 
amid  peaceful  memories,  slumberous  vistas,  lost  in 
that  valley  hidden  by  shimmering  veils  from  all  the 
implacable  forces  that  bring  the  alternation  of  cause 
and  effect  upon  subservient  worlds  and  men. 

[334] 


XVI 

AS   customary   on   Saturday  noon   Gordon 
found  his  copy  of  the  weekly  Bugle  pro 
jecting  from  his  numbered  compartment  at 
the  post-office.     There  were  no  letters.     He  thrust 
the  paper  into  his  pocket,  and  returned  to  the  village 
street.     The  day  was  warm,  but  the  mists  that  had 
enveloped  the  peaks  were  dissolving,  the  sky  was 
sparkling,  clear.     By  evening,  Gordon  decided,  it 
would  be  cold  again,  and  then  the  long,  rigorous 
winter  would  close  upon  the  valley  and  mountains. 

He  looked  forward  to  it  with  relief,  as  a  period  of 
somnolence  and  prolonged  rest — the  mental  stress 
and  labor  of  the  past  days  had  wearied  him  of  the 
active  contact  with  men  and  events.  He  was  glad 
that  they  were,  practically,  solved,  at  an  end — the 
towering  columns  of  figures,  the  perplexing  prob 
lems  of  equity,  the  far-reaching  decisions. 

In  rehearsing  his  course  it  seemed  impossible  to 
have  hit  upon  a  better,  a  more  comprehensive,  plan. 
There  was  hardly  a  family  he  knew  of  in  the  valley 
of  which  some  member  might  not  now  have  his 
chance.  That,  an  opportunity  for  all,  was  what 
Gordon  was  providing. 

[335] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

A  number  of  horses  were  already  hitched  along 
the  rail  outside  Valentine  Simmons'  store;  soon  the 
rail  would  hardly  afford  room  for  another  animal. 
He  passed  the  Presbyterian  Church,  Dr.  Pelliter's 
drugstore  and  dwelling,  and  approached  his  home. 
Seen  from  the  road  the  long  roof  was  variously 
colored  from  various  additions;  there  were  regions 
of  rusty  tar-paper,  of  tin  with  blistered  remnants  of 
dull  red  paint,  of  dark,  irregular  shingling. 

It  was  a  dwelling  weather-beaten  and  worn,  the 
latest  addition  already  discolored  by  the  elements, 
blended  with  the  nondescript  whole.  It  was  like 
himself,  Gordon  Makimmon  recognized;  in  him,  as 
in  the  house  below,  things  tedious  or  terrible  had 
happened,  the  echoes  of  which  lingered  within  the 
old  walls,  within  his  brain.  .  .  .  Now  it  was  good 
that  winter  was  coming,  when  they  would  lie  through 
the  long  nights  folded  in  snow,  in  beneficent  quie 
tude. 

There  were  some  final  details  to  complete  in  his 
papers.  He  took  off  his  overcoat,  laid  it  upon  the 
safe,  and  flung  the  Bugle  on  the  table,  where  it  fell 
half  open  and  neglected.  The  names  traced  by  his 
scratching  pen  brought  clearly  before  him  the  indi 
viduals  designated:  Elias  Wellbogast  had  a  long, 
tangled  grey  beard  and  a  gaze  that  peered  anxiously 
through  a  settling  blindness.  Thirty  acres — eight 
dollars  an  acre.  P.  Ville  was  a  swarthy  foreigner, 

[336] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

called,  in  Greenstream,  the  Portugee;  every  crop  he 
planted  grew  as  if  by  magic.  Old  Matthew  Zane 
would  endeavor  to  borrow  from  Gordon  the 
money  with  which  to  repurchase  the  option  he  had 
granted. 

He  worked  steadily,  while  the  rectangles  of  sun 
light  cast  through  the  windows  on  the  floor  shortened 
and  shifted  their  place.  He  worked  until  the  figures 
swam  before  his  eyes,  when  he  laid  aside  the  pen, 
and  picked  up  the  Bugle,  glancing  carelessly  over  the 
first  page. 

His  attention  immediately  concentrated  on  the 
headlines  of  the  left-hand  column,  his  gaze  had 
caught  the  words,  "Tennessee  and  Northern." 

"Goddy!"  he  exclaimed  aloud;  "they've  got  it  in 
ithe  Bugle,  the  railroad  coming  and  all." 

He  was  glad  that  the  information  had  been 
i printed,  it  would  materially  assist  in  the  announce 
ment  and  carrying  out  of  his  plan.  He  folded  the 
paper  more  compactly,  leaned  back  in  his  chair  to 
read  .  .  .  Why!  .  .  .  Why,  damn  it!  they  had  it 
all  wrong;  they  were  entirely  mistaken;  they  had 
printed  a  deliberate — a  deliberate — 

He  stopped  reading  to  marshal  his  surprised  and 
scattered  faculties.  Then,  with  a  rigid  countenance, 
he  pursued  the  article  to  the  end.  When  he  had 
finished  his  gaze  remained  subconsciously  fastened 
upon  the  paper,  upon  the  advertisement  of  a  man 

[337] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

who  paid  for  and  removed  the  bodies  of  dead  ani 
mals. 

Gordon  Makimmon's  lips  formed,  barely  audibly, 
a  name;  he  whispered,  "Valentine  Simmons." 

At  last  the  storekeeper  had  utterly  ruined  him. 
He  raised  the  paper  from  where  it  had  fallen  and 
read  the  article  once  more.  It  was  a  floridly  and 
violently  written  account  of  how  a  projected  branch 
of  the  Tennessee  and  Northern  System  through 
Greenstream  valley,  long  striven  for  by  solid  and 
public-spirited  citizens  of  the  County,  had  been  pre 
vented  by  the  hidden  avarice  of  a  well-known  local 
figure,  an  ex-stage  driver. 

The  latter,  the  account  proceeded,  with  a  fore 
knowledge  of  the  projected  transportation,  had  se 
cured  for  little  or  nothing  an  option  on  practically  all 
the  desirable  timber  of  the  valley,  and  had  held  it  at 
such  a  high  figure  that  the  railroad  had  been  forced 
to  abandon  the  scheme. 

"What  Greenstream  thus  loses  through  blind 
gluttony  cannot  be  enumerated  by  a  justly  incensed 
pen.  The  loss  to  us,  to  our  sons  and  daughters.  .  .  . 
This  secret  and  sinister  schemer  hid  his  purpose,  it 
now  appears,  in  a  cloak  of  seeming  benevolence. 
We  recall  a  feeling  of  doubt,  which  we  generously 
and  wrongfully  suppressed  at  the  time,  concerning 
the  motives  of  such  ill-considered  .  .  ." 

"Valentine  Simmons,"  he  repeated  harshly.  He 
[338] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

controlled  the  Bugle  in  addition  to  countless  other 
industries  and  interests  of  Greenstream.  This  ar 
ticle  could  not  have  been  printed  without  Simmons' 
cognizance,  his  co-operation.  It  was  the  crown  of 
his  long  and  victorious  struggle  with  Gordon  Ma- 
kimmon.  The  storekeeper  had  sold  him  the  options 
knowing  that  the  railroad  was  not  coming  to  the  val 
ley — some  inhibition  had  arisen  in  the  negotiations 
— he  had  destroyed  him  with  Gordon's  own  blind 
ness,  credulity.  And  he  had  walked  like  a  rat  into 
the  trap. 

The  bitter  irony  of  it  rose  in  a  wave  of  black  mirth 
to  his  twisted  lips ;  he,  Gordon  Makimmon,  was  ex 
posed  as  an  avaricious  schemer  with  the  prospects 
of  Greenstream,  with  men's  hopes,  with  their 
chances.  While  Simmons,  it  was  plainly  intimated, 
had  labored  faithfully  and  in  vain  for  the  people. 

He  rose  and  shook  his  clenched  hands  above  his 
head.  "If  I  had  only  shot  him!"  he  cried.  "If 
I  had  only  shot  him  at  first! " 

It  was  too  late  now:  nothing  could  be  gained  by 
crushing  the  flickering  vitality  from  that  aged,  pink 
ish  husk.  It  was,  Gordon  dimly  realized,  a  greater 
power  than  that  contained  by  a  single  individual,  by 
Valentine  Simmons,  that  had  beaten  him.  It  was  a 
stupendous  and  materialistic  force  against  the  metal 
lic  sweep  of  which  he  had  cast  himself  in  vain — it 
was  the  power,  the  unconquerable  godhead,  of  gold. 

[339] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

The  thought  of  the  storekeeper  was  lost  in  the 
realization  of  the  collapse  of  all  that  he  had  labori 
ously  planned.  The  destruction  was  absolute;  not 
an  inner  desire  nor  need  escaped;  not  a  projection 
remained.  The  papers  before  him,  so  painfully 
comprehended,  with  such  a  determination  of  justice, 
were  but  the  visible  marks  of  the  futility,  the  waste, 
of  his  dreaming. 

He  sank  heavily  into  the  chair  before  his  table. 
He  recalled  the  younger  Entriken's  smooth  lies,  the 
debauchery  of  his  money  by  the  Nickles;  William 
Vibard's  accordions  mocked  him  again  .  .  .  all,  all, 
had  been  in  vain,  worthless.  General  Jackson  rose, 
and  laid  his  long,  shaggy,  heavy  head  upon  Gor 
don's  knee. 

"We're  done  for,"  he  told  the  dog;  "we're  finished 
this  time.  Everything  has  gone  to  hell." 


[340] 


XVII 

HE  felt  strangely  lost  in  the  sudden  empti 
ness  of  his  existence,  an  existence  that, 
only  a  few  hours  before,  had  welcomed 
the  prospect  of  release  from  its  bewildering  fullness. 
He  had  gathered  the  results  of  his  slowly-formulat 
ing  consciousness,  his  tragic  memory,  to  a  final  re 
solve  in  the  return  of  the  options  to  a  county  en 
hanced  by  the  coming  of  a  railroad  whose  benefits  he 
would  distribute  to  all.  And  now  the  railroad  was 
no  more  than  a  myth,  it  had  vanished  into  thin,  false 
air,  carrying  with  it.  ... 

He  swept  his  hand  through  the  papers  of  his  vain 
endeavor,  bringing  a  sudden  confusion  upon  their 
order.  His  arm  struck  the  glass  of  shot,  and,  for  a 
short  space,  there  was  a  continuous  sharp  patter  on 
the  floor.  He  rose,  and  paced  from  wall  to  wall,  a 
bent  shape  with  open,  hanging  hands  and  a  strag 
gling  grey  wisp  of  hair  across  his  dry,  bony  fore 
head. 

Footsteps  crossed  the  porch,  a  knock  fell  upon  the 
door,  and  Gordon  responded  without  raising  his 
head. 

It  was  Simeon  Caley. 

[341] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

He  had  not  been  in  the  house  since,  together  with 
his  wife,  he  had  left  it  after  Lettice's  death.  Sim's 
stained  felt  hat  was  pushed  back  from  a  wet  brow, 
his  gestures  were  urgent. 

"Get  your  horse  in  the  buggy !"  he  exclaimed; 
"I'll  help  you.  Light  out." 

"  Tight  out'?"  Gordon's  gaze  centered  upon  the 
other's  excitement,  "where?" 

"That  doesn't  make  much  difference,  so's  you 
light.  The  County's  mad  clear  through,  and  it's 
pretty  near  all  in  the  village."  Sim  turned  to  the 
door.  "I'll  help  you,  and  then — drive." 

"I  ain't  agoing  to  drive  anywhere,"  Gordon  told 
him;  "I'm  where  I  belong." 

"You  don't  belong  in  Greenstream  after  that  piece 
in  the  Bugle"  his  hand  rested  on  the  knob.  "Tie 
up  anything  you  need,  I'll  hitch  the  buggy." 

"Don't  you  touch  a  strap,"  Gordon  commanded; 
"because  I  won't  put  a  foot  in  her." 

"It'll  all  settle  down  in  a  little;  then  maybe  you 
can  come  back." 

"What'll  settle  down?" 

"Why,  the  deal  with  the  railroad." 

"Sim,"  Gordon  demanded  sharply,  "you  never 
believed  that  in  the  paper?" 

"I  don't  know  what  to  b'lieve,"  the  other  replied 
evasively;  "a  good  many  say  those  are  the  facts, 
that  you  have  the  options." 

[342] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"Get  out  of  here!"  Gordon  shouted  in  a  sudden 
moving  rage;  "and  stay  out;  don't  come  back  when 
you  find  what's  what." 

"I  c'n  do  that.  And  I'll  point  out  to  you  we  just 
came  for  Lettice,  we  never  took  nothing  of  yours. 
I  only  stopped  now  to  warn  you  away  .  .  .  I'll  hitch 
iher  up,  Gordon;  you  get  down  the  road." 

"It's  mine  now,  whose  ever  it  was  awhile  back. 
I've  paid  for  it.  You  go." 

Simeon  Caley  lingered  reluctantly  at  the  door. 
Gordon  stood  rigidly;  his  eyes  were  bright  points 
of  wrath,  his  arm  rose,  with  a  finger  indicating  the 
world  without.  The  former  slowly  opened  the  door, 
stepped  out  upon  the  porch;  he  stayed  a  moment 
more,  then  closed  himself  from  sight. 


[343] 


XVIII 

THE  stir  and  heat  of  Sim's  presence  died 
quickly  away;  the  house  was  without  a 
sound;  General  Jackson  lay  like  an  effigy 
in  ravelled  black  and  buff  wool.  Gordon  assembled 
the  scattered  papers  on  the  table  into  an  orderly  pile. 
He  moved  into  the  kitchen,  abstractedly  surveyed 
the  familiar  walls;  he  walked  through  the  house  to 
the  sitting  room,  where  he  stood  lost  in  thought : 

The  County  was  "mad  clear  through";  Sim,  sup 
posing  him  guilty,  had  warned  him  to  escape,  ad 
vised  him  to  run  away.  .  .  .  That  had  never  been 
a  habit  of  the  Makimmons,  he  would  not  form  it 
now,  at  the  end.  He  was  not  considering  the  mere 
probability  of  being  shot,  but  of  the  greater  disaster 
that  had  already  smashed  the  spring  of  his  living. 
His  sensibilities  were  deadened  to  any  catastrophe  of 
the  flesh. 

At  the  same  time  he  was  conscious  of  a  mount 
ing  rage  at  being  so  gigantically  misunderstood,  and 
his  anger  mingled  with  a  bitter  contempt  for  Simeon 
Caley,  for  a  people  so  blind,  so  credulous,  so  help 
less  in  the  grasp  of  a  single,  shrewd  individual. 

He  heard  subdued  voices  without,  and,  through  a 
[344] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

window,  saw  that  the  sweep  by  the  stream  was  filling 
with  a  sullen  concourse  of  men;  he  saw  their  faces, 
grim  and  resentful,  turned  toward  the  house;  the 
sun  struck  upon  the  dusty,  black  expanse  of  their 
hats. 

He  walked  deliberately  through  the  bedroom  and 
out  upon  the  porch.  A  sudden,  profound  silence 
met  his  appearance,  a  shifting  of  feet,  a  concerted, 
bald,  inimical  stare. 

"Well?"  Gordon  Makimmon  demanded;  "you've 
read  the  Bugle,  well?" 

He  heard  a  murmur  from  the  back  of  the  throng, 

"Give  it  to  him,  we  didn't  come  here  to  talk." 

"  'Give  it  to  him,'  "  Gordon  repeated  thinly.  "I 
see  Ben  Nickles  there,  behind  that  hulk  from  the 
South  Fork;  Nickles'll  do  it  and  glad.  It  will  wipe 
off  the  two  hundred  dollars  he  had  out  of  me  for  a 
new  roof.  Or  there's  Entriken  if  Nickles  is  afraid, 
his  note  falls  due  again  soon." 

"What  about  the  railroad?" 

"What  about  it?  Greenstream's  been  settled  for 
eighty  years,  why  haven't  you  moved  around  and  got 
one?  Do  you  expect  the  President  of  the  Tennessee 
and  Northern  to  come  up  and  beg  you  to  let  them 
lay  tracks  to  your  doors?  If  you'd  been  men  you'd 
had  one  long  ago,  but  you're  just — just  stock.  I'd 
ruther  be  an  outlaw  on  the  mountain  than  any  of 
you;  I'd  ruther  be  what  you  think  I  am;  by  God!" 

[345] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

he  cried  out  of  his  bitterness  of  spirit,  "but  I'd  ruther 
be  Valentine  Simmons!" 

"Have  you  got  the  options?"  Entriken  demanded 
— "all  them  that  Pompey  had  and  you  bought?" 

Gordon  vanished  into  the  house,  and  reappeared 
with  the  original  contracts  in  his  grasp. 

"Here  they  are,"  he  exclaimed;  "I  paid  eighty- 
nine  thousand  dollars  to  get  them,  and  they're  worth 
— that,"  he  flung  them  with  a  quick  gesture  into  the 
air,  and  the  rising  wind  scattered  them  fluttering 
over  the  sere  grass.  "Scrabble  for  them  in  the  dirt." 

"You  c'n  throw  them  away  now  the  railroad's  left 
you." 

"And  before,"  Gordon  Makimmon  demanded, 
"do  you  think  I  couldn't  have  gutted  you  if  I'd  had 
a  mind  to?  do  you  think  anybody  couldn't  gut  you? 
Why,  you've  been  the  mutton  of  every  little  store 
keeper  that  let  you  off  with  a  pound  of  coffee,  of  any 
note  shaver  that  could  write.  The  Bugle  says  I  let 
out  money  to  cover  up  the  railway  deal,  but  that'd  be 
no  better  than  giving  it  to  stop  the  sight  of  the  blind. 
God  A'mighty!  this  transportation  business  you're 
only  whining  about  now  was  laid  out  five  years  ago, 
the  company's  agents  have  driven  in  and  out  twenty 
times.  .  .  ." 

"Let  him  have  it!" 

"Spite  yourselves!"  Gordon  Makimmon  cried; 
"it's  all  that's  left  for  you." 

[346] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

General  Jackson  moved  forward  over  the  porch. 
He  growled  in  response  to  the  menace  of  the  throng 
on  the  sod,  and  jumped  down  to  their  level.  A  sud 
den,  dangerous  murmur  rose: 

"The  two  hundred  dollar  dog!  The  joke  on 
Greenstream ! " 

He  walked  alertly  forward,  his  ears  pricked  up 
on  his  long  skull. 

"Cm  here,  General,"  Gordon  called,  suddenly 
urgent;  "c'm  back  here." 

The  dog  hesitated,  turned  toward  his  master, 
when  a  heavy  stick,  whirling  out  of  the  press  of 
men,  struck  the  animal  across  the  upper  forelegs. 
He  fell  forward,  with  a  sharp  whine,  and  attempted 
vainly  to  rise.  Both  legs  were  broken.  He  looked 
back  again  at  Gordon,  and  then,  growling,  strove 
to  reach  their  assailants. 

Gordon  Makimmon  started  forward  with  a  rasp 
ing  oath,  but,  before  he  could  reach  the  ground,  Gen 
eral  Jackson  had  propelled  himself  to  the  fringe  of 
humanity.  He  made  a  last,  convulsive  effort  to  rise, 
his  jaws  snapped.  ...  A  short,  iron  bar  descended 
upon  his  head. 

Gordon's  face  became  instantly,  irrevocably,  the 
shrunken  face  of  an  old  man. 

The  clustered  men  with  the  dead,  mangled  body 
of  the  dog  before  them;  the  serene,  sliding  stream 
beyond;  the  towering  east  range  bathed  in  keen  sun- 

[347] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

light,  blurred,  mingled,  in  his  vision.  He  put  out 
a  hand  against  one  of  the  porch  supports — a  faded 
shape  of  final  and  irremediable  sorrow. 

He  exhibited  neither  the  courage  of  resistance  nor 
the  superiority  of  contempt;  he  offered,  apparently, 
nothing  material  whatsoever  to  satisfy  the  vengeance 
of  a  populace  cunningly  defrauded  of  their  just  op 
portunities  and  profits;  he  seemed  to  be  no  more 
colored  with  life,  no  more  instinct  with  sap,  than  the 
crackling  leaves  blown  by  the  increasing  wind  about 
the  uneasy  feet  on  the  grass. 

He  lipped  a  short,  unintelligible  period,  gazing 
intent  and  troubled  at  the  throng.  He  shivered  per 
ceptibly:  under  the  hard  blue  sky  the  wind  swept 
with  the  sting  of  an  icy  knout.  Then,  turning  his 
obscure,  infinitely  dejected  back  upon  the  silent  men 
ace  of  the  bitter,  sallow  countenances,  the  harsh  an 
gular  forms,  of  Greenstream,  he  walked  slowly  to  the 
door.  He  paused,  his  hand  upon  the  knob,  as  if  ar 
rested  by  a  memory,  a  realization.  The  door 
opened;  the  house  absorbed  him,  presented  unbroken 
its  weather-worn  face. 

A  deep,  concerted  sigh  escaped  from  the  men  with 
out,  as  though,  with  the  vanishing  of  that  bowed  and 
shabby  frame,  they  had  seen  vanish  their  last  chance 
for  reprisal,  for  hope. 


[3481 


XIX 

THE  cold  sharpened ;  the  sky,  toward  evening, 
glittered  like  an  emerald;  the  earth  was 
black,  it  resembled  a  ball  of  iron  spinning 
in  the  diffused  green  radiance  of  a  dayless  and  gla 
cial  void.  The  stream  before  the  Makimmon  dwell 
ing  moved  without  a  sound  under  banked  ledges  of 
ice. 

A  thread  of  light  appeared  against  the  fagade  of 
the  house,  it  widened  to  an  opening  door,  a  brief 
glimpse  of  a  bald  interior,  and  then  revealed  the 
figure  of  a  man  with  a  lantern  upon  the  porch.  The 
light  descended  to  the  ground,  wavered  toward  a 
spot  where  it  disclosed  the  rigid,  dead  shape  of  a 
dog.  An  uncertain  hand  followed  the  swell  of  the 
ribs  to  the  sunken  side,  attempted  to  free  the  clotted 
hair  on  a  crushed  skull.  The  body  was  carefully 
raised  and  enveloped  in  a  sack,  laboriously  borne  to 
the  edge  of  the  silent  stream. 

There  it  was  lost  in  the  dark  as  the  light  moved 
to  where  it  cast  a  limited,  swinging  illumination  over 
the  wall  of  a  shed.  It  returned  to  the  stiffly  dis 
tended  sack,  and  there  followed  the  ring  of  metal  on 

[349] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

the  iron-like  earth.  In  the  pale  circle  of  the  lan 
tern  a  figure  stooped  and  rose,  a  figure  with  an  in 
tent,  furrowed  countenance. 

The  digging  took  a  long  while,  the  frozen  clods 
of  earth  fell  with  a  scattering  thud,  the  shadow  of 
the  hole  deepened  by  imperceptible  degrees.  Once 
the  labor  stopped,  the  sack  was  lowered  into  the 
ragged  grave ;  but  the  opening  was  too  shallow,  and 
the  rise  and  fall  of  the  solitary  figure  recommenced. 

The  sack  was  finally  covered  from  sight,  from 
the  appalling  frigidity  and  space  of  the  sky,  from  the 
frozen  surface  of  the  earth  wrapped  in  stillness,  in 
night.  The  clods  were  scraped  back  into  the  hole, 
stamped  into  an  integral  mass ;  the  spade  obliterated 
all  trace  of  what  lay  hidden  beneath,  returned  to  the 
clay  from  which  it  had  been  momentarily  animated 
by  the  enigmatic,  flitting  spark  of  life. 

The  lantern  retraced  its  path  to  the  shed,  to  the 
porch ;  where,  in  a  brief  thread  of  light,  in  the  shut 
ting  of  a  door,  it  disappeared. 


[350] 


XX 

GORDON  met  Valentine  Simmons  squarely 
for  the  first  time  since  the  collapse  of  his 
laborious  planning  outside  the  post-office. 
The  latter,  with  a  senile  and  pleased  chuckle,  tapped 
him  on  the  chest. 

"Teach  you  to  be  provident,  Gordon,"  he  said 
in  his  high,  rasping  voice;  "teach  you  to  see  further 
than  another  through  a  transaction;  as  far  ain't  near 
enough;  most  don't  see  at  all." 

The  anger  had  evaporated  from  Gordon  Makim- 
mon's  parched  being:  the  storekeeper,  he  recognized, 
was  sharper  than  all  the  rest  of  the  County  com 
bined;  even  now  the  raddled  old  man  was  more 
acute  than  the  young  and  active  intelligences.  He 
nodded,  and  would  have  passed  on,  but  the  store 
keeper,  with  a  ponderous  furred  glove,  halted  him. 

"We  haven't  had  any  satisfaction  lately  with  the 
Stenton  stage,"  he  shrilled;  "and  I  made  out  to  ask 
— you  can  take  it  or  leave  it — if  you'd  drive  again? 
It  might  be  a  kind  of — he!  he! — relax  from  your 
securities  and  investments." 

Gordon,  without  an  immediate  reply,  regarded 
[351] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

him.  He  thought,  in  sudden  approbation  of  a  part, 
at  least,  of  the  past,  that  he  could  drive  a  stage  better 
than  any  other  man  in  a  hundred,  in  a  thousand; 
there,  at  least,  no  humiliating  failure  had  overtaken 
his  prowess  with  whip  and  reins.  The  old  occupa 
tion,  the  monotonous,  restful  miles  of  road  sweeping 
back  under  the  wheels,  the  pleasant,  casual  detach 
ment  of  the  passengers,  the  pride  of  accomplishment, 
irresistibly  appealed  to  him. 

Valentine  Simmons'  rheumy  eyes  interrogated  him 
doubtfully  above  the  fixed,  dry  color  of  his  fallen 
cheeks. 

"By  God,  Valentine!"  Gordon  exclaimed,  "I'll 
do  it,  I'll  drive  her,  and  right,  too.  It  takes  experi 
ence  to  carry  a  stage  fifty  miles  over  these  mountains, 
day  and  day;  it  takes  a  man  that  knows  his  horses, 
when  to  slack  up  on  'em  and  when  to  swing  the 
leather  .  .  .  I'm  ready  any  time  you  say." 

"The  stage  goes  out  from  Greenstream  to-mor 
row;  you  can  take  it  the  trip  after.  Money  same 
as  before.  And,  Gordon, — he!  he! — don't  you 
go  and  lend  it  out  at  four  per  cent;  fifty's  talking 
but  seventy's  good.  Pompey  knew  the  trick,  he'd 
have  dressed  you  down  to  an  undershirt,  Pompey 
would." 

Gordon  returned  slowly,  absorbed  in  new  consid 
erations,  to  his  dwelling.  It  was  obvious  that  he 
could  not  live  there  alone  and  drive  the  Stenton 

[352] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

stage;  formerly  Clare  had  attended  to  the  house  for 
him,  but  now  there  was  no  one  to  keep  the  stoves  lit, 
to  attend  to  the  countless  daily  necessities.  This 
was  Tuesday — he  would  take  the  stage  out  on 
Thursday :  he  might  as  well  get  together  a  few  neces 
sities  and  close  the  place  at  once. 

""I'll  shut  her  right  in,"  he  said  aloud  in  the  empty, 
echoing  kitchen. 

He  decided  to  touch  nothing  within.  In  the  sit 
ting  room  the  swift  obscurity  of  the  closing  shutters 
obliterated  its  familiar  features — the  table  with  the 
lamp  and  pink  celluloid  thimble,  the  phonograph, 
the  faded  photograph  of  what  had  been  Mrs.  Holli- 
dew.  The  darkness  spread  to  the  bedroom  that  had 
been  Lettice's  and  his:  the  curtained  wardrobe  was 
drawn,  the  bed  lay  smoothly  sheeted  with  the  quilt 
folded  brightly  at  the  foot,  one  of  the  many  small 
glass  lamps  of  the  house  stood  filled  upon  the  bureau. 
The  iron  safe  was  eclipsed,  the  pens  upright  in  the 
glass  of  shot,  the  kitchen  and  spaces  beyond. 

Finally,  depositing  an  ancient  bag  of  crumbling 
leather  on  the  porch,  he  locked  himself  out.  He 
moved  the  bag  to  the  back  of  the  buggy,  and,  hitch 
ing  the  horse  into  the  worn  gear,  drove  up  the  in 
cline  to  the  public  road,  to  the  village,  without  once 
turning  his  head. 


[353] 


XXI 

HE  rose  at  five  on  Thursday  and  consumed  a 
hasty  breakfast  by  a  blur  of  artificial  light 
in  the  deserted  hotel  dining  room.  It  was 
pitch  black  without,  the  air  heavy  with  moisture,  and 
penetrating.  He  led  the  horses  from  the  shed  under 
which  he  had  hitched  them  to  the  stage,  and  climbed 
with  his  lantern  into  the  long-familiar  place  by  the 
whip.  A  light  streamed  from  the  filmy  window  of 
the  post-office,  falling  upon  tarnished  nutcrackers 
and  picks  in  a  faded  plush-lined  box  ranged  behind 
the  glass.  Gordon  could  see  the  dark,  moving  bulk 
of  the  postmaster  within.  The  leather  mail  bags, 
slippery  in  the  wet  atmosphere,  were  strapped  in  the 
rear,  and  Gordon  was  tightening  the  reins  when  he 
was  hailed  by  a  man  running  over  the  road.  It  was 
Simmons'  clerk. 

"The  old  man  says,"  he  shot  between  labored 
breaths,  "to  keep  a  watch  on  Buck.  Buckley's  com 
ing  back  with  you  tomorrow.  He's  been  down  to 
the  hospital  for  a  spell.  There  ain't  liable  to  be 
anybody  else  on  the  stage  this  time  of  year." 

The  horses  walked  swiftly,  almost  without  guid- 
[3541 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

ance,  over  the  obscured  way.  The  stage  mounted, 
turning  over  the  long  ascent  to  the  crown  of  the  east 
range.  Gordon  put  out  the  lantern.  A  faint  grey 
diluted  the  dark;  the  night  sank  thinly  to  morning, 
a  morning  overcast  with  sluggish  clouds;  the  bare 
trees,  growing  slowly  perceptible,  dripped  with  mois 
ture;  a  treacherous  film  of  mud  overlaid  the  adaman 
tine  road. 

The  day  broke  inexpressibly  featureless  and 
dreary.  The  stage  dropped  to  bald,  brown  valleys, 
soggy  fields  and  clear,  hurrying  streams ;  it  rose  de 
liberately  to  heights  blurred  in  aqueous  vapors. 
The  moisture  remained  suspended  throughout  the 
day;  the  grey  pall  hid  Stenton  as  he  drove  up  to  the 
tavern  that  formed  his  depot  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
city. 

Later,  in  the  solitude  of  his  room,  he  heard  the 
hesitating  patter  of  rain  on  the  roof.  He  thought, 
stretching  his  weary  frame  on  the  rigorous  bed,  that 
if  it  turned  cold  through  the  night,  the  frozen  road 
would  be  dangerous  tomorrow. 


[355] 


XXII 

BUCKLEY  SIMMONS  was  late  in  arriving 
from  the  hospital,  and  it  was  past  seven  be 
fore  the  stage  departed  for  Greenstream. 
Buckley  sat  immediately  back  of  Gordon  Makim- 
mon;  the  former's  head,  muffled  in  a  long  woolen 
scarf,  showed  only  his  dull,  unwitting  gaze. 

They  rapidly  left  the  dank  stone  streets  and 
houses.  The  smoke  ascending  from  the  waterworks 
was  no  greyer  than  the  day.  The  rain  fell  in  small, 
chill,  gusty  sweeps. 

Gordon  Makimmon  settled  resolutely  to  the  long 
drive;  he  was  oblivious  of  the  miles  of  sodden  road 
stretching  out  behind,  he  was  not  aware  of  the  pale, 
dripping,  wintry  landscape — he  was  lost  in  a  con 
tinuous  train  of  memories  wheeling  bright  and  dis 
tant  through  his  mind.  He  was  looking  back  upon 
the  features  of  the  past  as  he  might  have  looked  at  a 
series  of  dissolving  pictures,  his  interest  in  which 
was  solely  that  of  spectator. 

They  were  without  unity,  unintelligible  in  the 
light  of  any  concerted  purpose  or  result.  They 
were,  however,  highly  pleasant,  or  amazingly  inex 
plicable.  For  example: 

[356] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

His  wife,  Lettice,  how  young  she  was  smiling  at 
him  from  the  sunny  grass!  She  walked  happily 
toward  him,  with  her  shawl  about  her  shoulders, 
but  she  didn't  reach  him;  she  was  sitting  in  the  rock 
ing  chair  on  the  porch  ...  the  day  faded,  she  was 
singing  a  little  throaty  song,  sewing  upon  a  little 
square  of  white — she  was  gone  as  swiftly,  as  utterly, 
as  a  shadow.  The  shape  of  Meta  Beggs,  animated 
with  incomprehensible  gestures,  took  its  place  in  the 
procession  of  his  memories.  She,  grimacing,  came 
alike  to  naught,  vanished.  All  stopped  for  a  mo 
ment  and  then  disappeared,  leaving  no  trace  behind. 

He  mechanically  arrested  the  horses  before  the 
isolated  buildings  that  formed  the  midday  halt. 

Buckley  Simmons,  crouching  low  over  the  table, 
consumed  his  dinner  with  formless,  guttural  appro 
bation.  The  place  above  his  forehead,  where  he 
had  been  struck  by  the  stone,  was  puckered  and 
dark.  He  raised  his  eyes — the  unquenchable  ha 
tred  of  Gordon  Makimmon  flared  momentarily  on  his 
vacuous  countenance  like  the  flame  of  a  match  lit 
in  the  wind. 

Once  more  on  the  road  the  rain  stopped,  the  cold 
increased;  high  above  the  earth  the  masses  of  cloud 
gathered  wind-herded  in  the  south.  The  dripping 
from  the  trees  ceased,  the  black  branches  took  on  a 
faint  glitter;  the  distant  crash  of  a  falling  limb 
sounded  from  the  woods. 

T3571 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

Gordon,  doubting  whether  the  horses'  shoes  had 
been  lately  roughed,  descended,  but,  to  his  surprise, 
found  that  the  scoring  had  been  properly  main 
tained,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  had  not  had  his 
attention.  He  had  little  cause  to  swing  the  heavy 
whip — the  off  horse,  a  raw-boned  animal  colored 
yellowish-white,  never  ceased  pulling  valiantly  on 
the  traces;  he  assumed  not  only  his  own  share  of 
the  labor  but  was  willing  to  accept  that  of  his 
companion,  and  Gordon  had  continually  to  restrain 
him. 

The  glitter  spread  transparently  over  the  road; 
the  horses  dug  their  hoofs  firmly  into  the  frozen 
ruts.  Suddenly  a  burst  of  sunlight  enveloped  the 
land,  and  the  land  responded  with  an  instant,  intol 
erable  brilliancy,  a  blinding  sheet  of  white  radiance. 
Every  limb,  every  individual  twig  and  blade  of 
grass,  was  covered  with  a  sparkling,  transparent 
mail;  every  mound  of  brown  earth  scintillated  in  a 
crisp  surface  of  ice  like  chocolate  confections  glazed 
in  clear  sugar.  The  clouds  dissolved;  the  trees,  en 
cased  in  crystal  pipes,  rose  dazzling  against  a  pale, 
luminous  blue  expanse.  Gigantic  swords  of  incan 
descence  shifted  over  the  mountainside;  shoals  of 
frosty  sparks  filled  the  hollows;  haloes  immaculate 
and  uncompassionate  hung  above  the  hills. 

Viewed  from  the  necessity  of  the  driver  of  the 
Stenton  stage  this  phenomenon  was  highly  undesir- 

[358] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

able, — the  glassy  road  enormously  increased  the  la 
bor  of  the  horses;  Gordon's  vigilance  might  not  for 
a  minute  be  relaxed.  The  blazing  sun  blurred  his 
vision,  the  cold  crept  insidiously  into  his  bones. 
The  stage  slowly  made  its  way  into  the  valleys,  over 
the  ranges;  and,  with  it,  the  sun  made  its  way  over 
valley  and  mountain  toward  the  west. 

At  last  the  stage  reached  the  foot  of  Buck  Moun 
tain;  beyond  lay  the  village,  the  end  of  day.  The 
horses  cautiously  began  the  ascent,  while  Gordon, 
watching  their  progress,  lent  them  the  assistance 
of  his  judgment  and  voice.  The  road  looped  a 
cleared  field  against  the  mountain,  on  the  left  an  icy 
slope  fell  away  in  a  glittering  tangle  of  underbrush. 
The  stage  turned  and  the  opening  dropped  upon  the 
right. 

Gordon  heard  a  thick,  unintelligible  sound  from 
behind,  and,  looking  about,  saw  Buckley  Simmons 
clambering  out  over  the  wheel.  He  stopped  the 
horses,  but  Buckley  slipped,  fell  upon  the  road. 
However,  he  quickly  scrambled  erect,  and  walked 
beside  the  stage,  over  the  incline.  His  head  was 
completely  hidden  by  the  woollen  scarf;  in  one  hand 
he  carried  a  heavy  switch.  The  road  swung  about 
once  more,  and,  at  the  turn,  the  fall  was  abrupt. 
Buckley  Simmons  stumbled  across  the  space  that 
separated  him  from  the  horses.  And  Gordon,  with 
an  exclamation  of  incredulous  surprise,  saw  the 

[359] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

other's  arm  sweep  up. — The  switch  fell  viciously 
across  the  back  of  the  yellowish-white  horse. 

The  animal  plunged  back,  dragging  his  compan 
ion  against  the  stage.  Gordon  rose,  lashing  out 
with  his  voice  and  whip;  the  horses  struggled  to 
regain  their  foothold  .  .  .  slipped.  .  .  .  He  felt 
the  seat  dropping  away  behind  him.  Then,  with  a 
violent  wrench,  a  sliding  crash,  horses,  stage  and 
man  lurched  down  the  incline. 


[360] 


XXIII 

GORDON  MAKIMMON  rose  to  a  sitting 
position  on  the  glassy  fall.     Above  him,  to 
the  right,  the  stage  lay  collapsed,  its  wheels 
broken  in.     Below  the  yellowish-white  horse,  upon 
his  back,  drew  his  legs  together,  kicked  out  convul 
sively,  and  then  rolled  over,  lay  still.     From  the 
round  belly  the  broken  end  of  a  shaft  squarely  pro 
jected.     The  other  horse  was  lost  in  a  thrashing 
thicket  below. 

Gordon  exclaimed,  "God  A 'mighty ! "  Then  the 
thought  flashed  through  his  mind  that,  extraordina 
rily,  he  had  not  been  hurt — he  had  fallen  away  from 
the  plunging  hoofs,  his  heavy  winter  clothes  had 
preserved  him  from  serious  bruises.  His  face  was 
scratched,  his  teeth  ached  intolerably,  but,  beyond 
that.  .  .  . 

He  rose  shakily  to  his  feet.  As  he  moved  a  swift, 
numbing  pain  shot  from  his  right  side,  through  his 
shoulder  to  his  brain,  where,  apparently,  it  cen 
tered  in  a  burning  core  of  suffering.  He  choked  un 
expectedly  on  a  warm,  thick,  salty  tide  welling  into 
his  throat.  He  said  aloud,  surprised,  "Something's 
busted." 

[361] 


MOUNTAIN   BLOOD 

He  swayed,  but  preserved  himself  from  falling, 
and  spat.  Instantly  there  appeared  before  him  on 
the  shining  ice  a  blot  of  vivid,  living  scarlet. 

"That's  bad,"  he  added  dully. 

He  must  get  up  to  the  road,  out  of  this  damned 
mess.  The  stage,  he,  had  not  fallen  far;  the  road 
was  but  a  few  yards  above  him,  but  the  ascent,  with 
the  pain  licking  through  him  like  a  burning  tongue, 
the  unaccustomed,  disconcerting  choking  in  his 
throat,  was  incredibly  toilsome,  long. 

Buckley  Simmons  was  standing  on  the  road  with 
a  lowered,  vacant  countenance,  a  face  as  empty  of 
content,  of  the  trace  of  any  purpose,  as  a  washed 
slate. 

"You  oughtn't  to  have  done  that,  Buck,"  Gor 
don  told  him  impotently;  "you  ought  never  to  have 
done  a  thing  like  that.  Why,  just  see  .  .  ."  Gor 
don  Makimmon's  voice  was  tremulous,  his  brain 
blurred  from  shock.  "You  went  and  killed  that  off 
horse,  and  a  man  never  hitched  a  better.  There's 
the  mail,  too;  however  it'll  get  to  Greenstream  on 
contract  to-night  I  don't  know.  That  was  the  hell 
of  a  thing  to  go  and  do!  ...  off  horse  .  ,  .  wil 
ling-" 

The  sky  flamed  in  a  transcendent  glory  of  aureate 
light;  the  molten  gold  poured  in  streams  over  the 
land,  dripped  from  the  still  branches.  The  crash 
ing  of  falling  limbs  sounded  everywhere, 

[362] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

They  were,  Gordon  knew,  not  half  way  up  Buck 
Mountain.  There  were  no  dwellings  between  them 
and  Greenstream  village,  no  houses  immediately  at 
their  back.  The  road  wound  up  before  them  to 
ward  the  pure  splendor  of  sheer  space.  The  cold 
steadily  increased.  Gordon's  jaw  chattered,  and  he 
saw  that  Buckley's  face  was  pinched  and  blue. 

"Got  to  move,"  Gordon  articulated;  "freeze  out 
here."  He  lifted  his  feet,  stamped  them  on  the  hard 
earth,  while  the  pain  leaped  and  flamed  in  his  side. 
He  labored  up  the  ascent,  but  Buckley  Simmons  re 
mained  where  he  was  standing.  I'll  let  him  stay, 
Gordon  decided,  he  can  freeze  to  death  and  welcome, 
no  loss  .  .  .  after  a  thing  like  that.  He  moved 
forward  once  more,  but  once  more  stopped. 

"C'm  on,"  he  called  impatiently;  "you'll  take  no 
good  here."  He  retraced  his  steps,  and  roughly 
grasped  the  other's  arm,  urging  him  forward. 
Buckley  Simmons  whimpered,  but  obeyed  the  pres 
sure. 

The  long,  toilsome  course  began,  a  trail  of  fre 
quent  scarlet  patches  marking  their  way.  Buck 
ley  lagged  behind,  shaking  with  exhaustion  and 
chill,  but  Gordon  commanded  him  on;  he  pulled 
him  over  deep  ruts,  cursed  him  into  renewed  energy. 
This  dangerously  delayed  their  progress. 

"I  got  a  good  mind  to  leave  you,"  Gordon  told 
him;  "something's  busted  and  I  want  to  make  the 

[363] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

village  soon's  I  can;  and  here  you  drag  and  hang 
back.  You  did  it  all,  too.  C'm  on,  you  dam' 
fool:  I  could  get  along  twice  as  smart  without  you." 

It  seemed  to  Gordon  Makimmon  that,  as  he 
walked,  the  hurt  within  him  was  consuming  flesh 
and  bone;  it  was  eating  away  his  brain.  The  thick, 
salty  taste  persisted  in  his  mouth,  nauseating  him. 

The  light  faded  swiftly  to  a  mysterious  violet 
glimmer  in  the  sky,  on  the  ground,  a  cold  phos 
phorescence  that  seemed  to  emanate  from  the  ice. 

Buckley  Simmons  could  scarcely  proceed ;  he  fell, 
and  Gordon  drew  him  sharply  to  his  feet.  Finally 
Gordon  put  an  arm  about  his  shoulder,  steadying 
him,  forcing  him  on.  He  must  hurry,  he  realized, 
while  the  other  held  him  back,  delayed  the  assistance 
that  Gordon  so  desperately  needed. 

"I  tell  you,"  he  repeated  querulously,  "I  got  to 
get  along;  something's  broke  inside.  I'll  leave 
you,"  he  threatened;  "I'll  let  you  sit  right  here  and 
go  cold."  It  was  an  empty  threat;  he  struggled  on, 
giving  Buckley  his  support,  his  determination,  shar 
ing  the  ebbing  store  of  his  strength. 

As  they  neared  the  top  of  the  mountain  a  flood 
of  light  colder  than  the  ice  poured  from  behind. 
The  moon  had  risen,  transforming  the  world  into  a 
crystal  miracle.  .  .  .  Far  below  them  was  the 
Greenstream  valley,  the  village.  They  struggled 
forward,  an  uncouth,  slipping  bulk,  under  the  soar- 

[364] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

ing,  dead  planet.  Gleams  of  light  shot  like  quick 
silver  about  their  feet,  quivered  in  the  clear  gloom 
like  trails  of  pale  fire  igniting  lakes  of  argent  flame. 
It  was  magnificent  and  cruel,  a  superb  fantasy 
rippling  over  treacherous  rocks,  rock-like  earth. 

"Y'  dam'  idiot,"  Gordon  mumbled,  "if  I  die  out 
here  where'll  y'  be  then?  I'd  like  to  know  that.  .  .  . 
Don't  sit  down  on  me  again,  I  don't  know's  I  could 
get  you  up,  don't  b'lieve  I  could.  Like  as  not  we 
won't  make  her.  That  was  an  awful  good  horse. 
I'm  under  contract  to — to  .  .  .  government." 

Buckley  Simmons  sank  to  his  knees:  once  more 
Gordon  kicked  him  erect.  He  spat  and  spat,  con 
stantly  growing  weaker.  "That's  an  awful  lot  of 
blood  for  a  man  to  lose,"  he  complained. 

Suddenly  he  saw  upon  the  right  the  lighted  square 
of  a  window. 

"Why!"  he  exclaimed  weakly,  "here's  the  val 
ley." 

He  pushed  Buckley  toward  the  door,  and  there 
was  an  answering  stir  within  .  .  .  voices. 


[365] 


XXIV 

AN  overwhelming  desire  possessed  Gordon 
Makimmon  to  go  home.  He  forgot  the 
pressing  necessity  for  assistance,  the  sear 
ing  hurt  within  ...  he  must  go  home.  He  stumbled 
forward,  turning  into  an  aside  that  led  directly  be 
hind  Dr.  Pelliter's  drug  store  to  the  road  above  the 
Makimmon  dwelling.  He  moved  blindly,  instinc 
tively,  following  the  way  bitten  beneath  his  con 
sciousness  by  a  lifetime  of  usage. 

The  house  was  dark,  but  it  was  hardly  darker 
than  Gordon's  brain.  He  climbed  the  steps  to  the 
porch;  his  hands  fumbled  among  the  keys  in  his 
pocket. 

Feet  tramped  across  the  creaking  boards,  ap 
proaching  him;  a  palm  fell  upon  his  shoulder;  a 
crisp  voice  rang  out  uncomprehended  at  his  ear.  It 
said: 

"I'd  knocked  on  all  the  doors,  and  was  just  go 
ing.  I  wanted  to  see  you  at  once — " 

Gordon  felt  over  the  door  in  search  of  the  place 
for  the  key. 

"I  say  I  wanted  to  see  you,"  the  voice  persisted; 
[366] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

"it's  Edgar  Crandall.  You'll  take  pleasure  from 
what  I've  got  to  tell." 

The  key  slipped  into  its  place  and  the  bolt  shot 
back.  .  .  .  Well,  he  was  home.  No  other  thought, 
no  other  consciousness,  lingered  in  his  mind;  even 
the  pain,  the  unsupportable  white  core  of  suffering 
in  his  brain,  was  dulled.  He  place  his  foot  upon  the 
threshold,  but  the  hand  upon  his  shoulder  arrested 
him: 

"Greenstream's  going  to  have  a  bank,"  the  voice 
triumphantly  declared;  "it's  settled — part  outside 
capital,  part  guaranteed  right  here.  Paper  shaving, 
robbery,  finished  .  .  .  lawful  rate  .  .  .  chance — " 

It  was  no  more  to  Gordon  Makimmon  than  the 
crackling  of  the  forest  branches,  no  more  than  an 
inexplicable  hindrance  to  a  desired  consummation. 

"If  it  hadn't  been  for  you,  what  you  did  for  me 
.  .*,  others  .  .  .  new  courage,  example  of  bigness 
— Why!  what's  the  matter  with  you,  Makimmon? 
That's  blood." 

Gordon  made  a  tremendous  effort  of  will,  of  grim 
concentration.  He  freed  himself  from  the  detaining 
hand.  "Moment,"  he  pronounced.  The  single 
word  was  expelled  as  dryly,  as  lifelessly,  as  a  pro 
jectile,  from  a  throat  insensate  as  the  barrel  of  a 
gun.  He  vanished  into  the  bitterly  cold  house. 

The  bare  floors  echoed  to  his  plodding  footsteps 
as  he  entered  the  bedroom  beyond  the  dismantled 

[367] 


MOUNTAIN    BLOOD 

chamber  of  the  safe.  A  flickering  desire  to  see  led 
him  to  where,  on  the  bureau,  a  lamp  had  been  left. 
The  chimney  fell  with  a  crash  of  splintering  glass 
upon  the  floor,  a  match  flared  in  his  stiff  fingers, 
and  the  unprotected  wick  burned  with  a  choking, 
spectral  blue  light. 

He  saw,  gazing  at  him  from  the  black  depths  of 
the  mirror  above  the  bureau,  a  haggard  face  drained 
of  all  life,  of  all  blood,  with  deep  inky  pools  upon 
the  eyes.  A  sudden  emotion  stirred  in  the  chill  im 
mobility  creeping  upward  through  him. 

"Lettice!"  he  cried  in  a  voice  as  flat  as  a  spent 
echo;  "Lettice  1" 

He  stumbled  back,  sinking. 

Edgar  Crandall  found  him  kneeling  at  the  bed, 
his  arms  outflung  across  the  counterpane,  his  head 
bowed  between,  with  a  blackening  stain  beneath  his 
clay-cold  lips,  beneath  his  face  scarred  with  immeas 
urable  suffering,  fixed  in  a  last  surprise. 


THE  END 


[3681 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN     INITIAL    FINE    OF    25    CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $I.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


9  1933 

10  1933 


i» 

>  so 


JUN   12  1934 

JUN    26  --4 
JUN    261S34 


(JET  D      MAR     l  1964 


APR  30  1935 


APR    7  J937 
JAN    3     1939      _ 

I  21  i343 
AUG  18  1946 
UNov'48  EC 


REC'D  LL= 

UN  - 1 195'-? 


LD  21A-60m-3,'65 
(F2336slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


